TS01 Time Station London

by David Evans

  Churchill thought on that a tense moment. “Tight timing.”

  “Yes,” all three MI-5 men agreed.

  Then Winston proved his worth as a great leader. “I don’t like the increased danger to civilians, and our heavy industry. But the advantage it gives us over the enemy far outweighs such considerations. Yes, I’ll help you protect your Enigma.”

  Time: 1840, EST, July 16, 1940

  Place: Aerodrome of Luftflotte 34,

  Outside Beauvais, Occupied France

  Colonel Werner Ruperle pushed back the metal plate. Sausages, boiled potatoes, and black bread again. He no longer doubted that he was back at Luftflotte 34. For a moment, he longed for his home in Diessen. He turned his swivel chair to the stack of papers waiting his signature.

  “Report of the Morale Officer.” There’s an exciting one, he thought. After reading the glowing report of the enthusiasm of the men for carrying the war, to the English, he seriously wondered if the author had written fiction before joining the Luftwaffe. Col. Ruperle had been shocked upon his return to see the gaunt, hollow faces and flat eyes of the young men in his command.

  Day after night of living in terror of antiaircraft and enemy fighters had drawn their youth from them. Sleeping through the day kept the night crews from even minimal sun. They looked as though recently discharged from the hospital. Fear rode their backs every moment. How in hell could this idiot, Lt. Strubbel, say they “cheered and sang” as they loaded into their airplanes to fly over the “helpless fields” of England? More than five hundred aircraft had been shot down or blown to pieces. Thirteen hundred would be going on this night’s raid. How many would fall from the sky? How many would disappear in a white-orange flash?

  Boys, some of them not four years older than Bruno, forced into uniform and sent off to serve the Reich. And what a Fatherland it had become! Sorry, frightened wretches skulked through the alleys to avoid the State Secret Police. He believed that the Geheimnis Staats Polizei, the Gestapo, had far exceeded their authority. They had become a scourge for all the citizens. But who was to say what that authority encompassed? The Führer constantly changed his mind about who were the current enemies of the German State. Or could that be the doing of Himmler and Hess? A knock sounded and he discovered he had been staring blankly at the third report.

  “Hierhin!”

  Captain Moen entered. “Herr Hauptmann, I regret to report that four of my flight’s aircraft are still inoperable. We will not be able to participate in tonight’s raid.”

  Ruperle raised an eyebrow. “Impossible. Are there no spare parts? Do you lack mechanics?”

  “No, sir. We are backlogged two weeks on general maintenance. Every aircraft needed something done. Not all were damaged by enemy action. Brakes were worn, cables slack, bearings out of round, or collapsed. With our schedule, two entire squadrons, fully half of them, are in the air day and night. Machines wear out,” Moen ended lamely.

  “I am aware of that. Very well, have your flight stand down. I will have a talk with the ground crews tomorrow.”

  Unable to conceal his relieved expression, Moen saluted and left the room. Col. Ruperle glanced down at the next report. In a cynical tone he began to read aloud. “Maintenance programs are ahead of schedule. Parts supplies are ample.”

  Abruptly, Werner threw down his fountain pen on top of the printed form. Globs of ink spattered it. “Lies!” he barked aloud. “But the sort of lies the Führer expects—no, insists on hearing.” A look at the unforgiving clock across the room informed him he had less than an hour before they took off.

  Time: 0014, GMT, July 17, 1940

  Place: ln the Air Above the English Channel,

  Off the Coast of Portsmouth, Hampshire, England

  Cruising along in the chill thin air of 7,500 meters, Col. Ruperle raised a gloved hand to rub at his eyes. The soft, red glow from the instrument panel did not rob him of his night vision. The stars glowed in thick clusters above the English Channel. Ruperle stifled a yawn. Night flying, at least when not close to mountains, made him sleepy.

  His eyelids drooped. Suddenly his reverie disintegrated in ballpeen hammer blows against the starboard side skin of his Me-110. A moment later; the orange flare of an engine exhaust cut across the right edge of his vision. The Plexiglas in the side windows blew inward in a shower of jagged shards.

  Beside him, his copilot screamed soundlessly for a fraction of a second before his head exploded in a shower of blood and tissue. Ruperle fought the controls. Dimly he heard the chatter of his waist-gunner returning fire. A red stream of tracers drew lines in the sky, slanted upward from under the clear dome of the bombardier’s position. He sensed impacts on the tail section through the control column, and then his stomach lurched as the aircraft skidded through the air.

  “Liebe Gott. Wir sind gestarben!” the flight engineer/ bombardier screamed in his ear.

  “Yes, we’re going to die, Horst,” Col. Ruperle snarled back. “If you don’t calm yourself and take those goddamned controls and help me fly this airplane.”

  Horst’s panic ended as though he had been slapped. He unbuckled his seat belt and pulled the corpse off the copilot’s control column and released the harness. Then, with grunts and a soft moan, he pulled the dead flyer out of his seat. Blood still dripped from above. Gingerly Horst took the right-hand seat. With the controls freed, Col. Ruperle painfully regained command of his wounded bird.

  Shivers still came to his fingers from the damaged control surfaces on the twin rudders. A quick glance told him they had lost 690 meters of altitude. He pulled back on the wheel. Immediately the nose began to vibrate. Another roar of bullet impacts came a split second before the yellow-orange flame of a Hurricane’s exhaust flashed past above the cockpit. A whimper came from Horst.

  “Shut up!” Then he keyed his microphone and spoke to his squadron. “Attention. Continue to the target. We have been badly hit. We are turning off. Do not follow.”

  Slowly, biting his lip in apprehension, Col. Ruperle began a shallow, slow turn to the left. The anxiety that bloomed in his chest came not from the condition of his aircraft, but rather from watching his squadron drone on past without him to lead them.

  Time: 0630, GMT, July 25, 1940

  Place: Time Station London, Thameside,

  London, England

  Dianna Basehart’s courting of Helene Carstairs-Upton paid off handsomely. She received an invitation to a soiree given by Sir Rupert Cordise at the Imperial Hotel. Smugly, she showed it to Brian Moore and Vito Alberdi. Brian appeared unimpressed.

  Miffed, Diana snapped. “I don’t see you getting an invitation to one of our target’s affairs.”

  Brian pulled a droll face. “I don’t have a body like a candidate for Ms. Solar System.”

  “Ms. what?” a puzzled Dianna asked.

  Smiling lightly, Brian explained. “From my studies of the twentieth century, I discovered this quaint annual ritual. Something called a ‘beauty pageant.’ First came one for ‘Miss America,’ and eventually one for ‘Miss Universe’, meaning the whole world. I was only extrapolating to include Luna and the Mars colony.”

  Dianna’s eyes sparkled. “You’re not making fun of me? You really think I look that good?”

  Face made solemn, Brian answered honestly, “Any day of the year.”

  “You’re sweet.”

  Brian had the grace to blush. “When is this revelry?”

  “Early tomorrow afternoon. Sort of a luncheon, to be exact.”

  “What is the occasion?” Brian had real curiosity about this aspect.

  “It is a celebration to announce his candidacy for Parliament. Cordise has ‘stepped down,’ as they put it, from his knighthood, in order to serve the nation in the House of Commons. The signature count on his petition was verified two days ago.”

  And some time after that he conspires with Cliv
e Beattie to put a major disturbance in the fabric of Time, Brian thought angrily. “Have a good time, Di. And drink some champagne for me ... lots of champagne.”

  “Oh, I will,” she responded cheerily.

  Time: 2213, GMT, July 25, 1940

  Place: Rooming House of Sandy Hammond,

  Gloucester Street, Coventry,

  Warwickshire, England

  For the first time, Sandy Hammond received a lengthy transmission on her hidden radio set. Rusty from lack of practice, she meticulously took down the five-letter code groups, placing them in blocks of five lines each. Then she turned off the transceiver and went to work deciphering the five-character crypto sets. As the words became clear on her code pad, a cold chill formed along her spine.

  “Urgent(x) Urgent(x) You are to immediately discover and identify by number the squadrons protecting the Birmingham/Coventry area(x) Also to provide the type and number of aircraft and the names of the pilots, their family status, and other pertinent information(x)”

  Quickly she transposed the signature block. “Canaris.”

  “Oh, God, the Spymaster himself,” Sandy muttered to herself. “If I give up Wendall’s name and his parents, he’ll suspect something, sure as the sun rises.”

  Thoroughly shaken, she memorized the message, concealed her codebook, and touched a match to the flash paper sheet of the code pad. That, she knew, was the only easy part. If she didn’t do what the admiral wanted, the Nazis would be after her fanny. If she did, the Brits would identify her and hunt her down. As a civilian, she would be hanged. She certainly did not relish dying by any method, especially on the gallows. Not in this Where and When.

  Time: 1525, GMT, July 26, 1940

  Place: Grand Ballroom of the Imperial Hotel,

  London, England

  “War’s a magnet. It always draws in the rogue travelers like fleas to a dog,” Dianna recalled Arkady telling her during the briefing. It seemed to attract no small number of homegrown profiteers, she considered as she eyed the gathering in the private dining suite at the Imperial Hotel. In a single glance, she recognized two minor industrialists involved in the manufacture of munitions, and a doctor notorious for the ease with which he issued medical deferments for the rich, young, and pampered. At the far end, a string quartet played Brahms and Haydn on a dais framed by tall, narrow, lancet windows. All supporters of Sir Rupert Cordise, the occupants wore formal attire that sparkled with medals, jewels, and gold necklaces.

  Dianna, as Lady Allison, made her own dazzling entrance. Diamonds formed a bow for her cloche hat; a jeweled feather boa draped fashionably around her neck and fell like cascades front and rear. She gave up her mink stole to a diminutive young woman in gray short skirt and blouse, with flaring white cuffs and collar, and an apron of the same snowy, starched linen. A mobcap of corresponding color and trim covered a cluster of small, tight, blond curls. She curtsied and hurried off with her burden to the cloakroom. Brian had been right, Dianna noted as she strolled into the center.of the room. Cordise had provided plenty of champagne. All of the highest quality.

  Served in magnums, Dianna noted the expected Château Neuf Rothchild champagne. Also several other Château bottled labels, such as Côte du Rouen and Brabbant. There was a champagne fountain in operation, using the less expensive Mumm’s Cordon Bleu. On the same table, highlighted by a pin spot, rested a huge crystal bowl in a larger one of ice, mounded with beluga caviar. Idly she wondered if the Abwehr received a detailed accounting of expenses from Rupert Cordise. Their host stood at that table, helping himself at regular intervals to toast points amply loaded with the processed sturgeon roe. He spoke animatedly to a dowager who dripped diamonds, pearls, and furs. From his words, Dianna surmised he responded to some criticism of such ostentatious opulence.

  “Ta-ta, my dear Dame Agatha. People of our class never suffer shortages. I’ve had this ten-stone tub of caviar in my cellar for ages. The champagne is some of the last to come out of France before the Germans took over. It was rescued for me by my dear friend, Brigadier Hartley, what? Thank the Lord for that.”

  Her expression hard, the light in the eyes of Dame Agatha could have blistered paint off the hull of the Ark Royal. “You are quite ... ingenious, Sir Rupert.”

  Rupert Cordise disregarded the implied criticism. “Thank you. One must keep up appearances. And we do have so much to celebrate today.” He turned away to find himself within two feet of Dianna Basehart. He gave her a long, careful appraisal, all of it favorable. His eyes grew hot with sudden lust. “And you are?”

  “Lady Allison Wyndamire.”

  “Oh, yes, Helene told me all, about you. And, I must, say, shame on her. She didn’t advise me that you were such an enchanting beauty.” Suavely he shifted gears. “You’ve kept yourself away in Canada far too long. We’ve quite forgotten your face. Come, let me introduce you around and welcome you back into society. Then you simply must join me at my table for the buffet.” His bald pate glowed pinkly above the salt-and-pepper tonsure.

  While the champagne and sherry flowed, Dianna found herself the center of attention for the traitorous peer. Granted, he opened many doors for her, and invitations to call or to take tea poured out as generously as the wine, but he made her skin crawl. If Cordise had not been the target, she might enjoy a full social whirl that season.

  When everyone lined up for the buffet, Cordise hovered over her. She selected some cold Yorkshire ham, a small dove pie, and asparagus in aspic. Cordise seated her on his left, the second place of honor. The right side had been accorded to the largest contributor to his campaign war chest. Conversation around the table progressed with conviviality. Dianna frequently found the tuxedo knee of Sir Rupert pressed tightly against her own.

  At the conclusion of the meal, when the others had excused themselves to seek out cordials, brandy, and cigars, Dianna and Sir Rupert remained alone at the table. He boldly took her hand and gazed into her eyes.

  “What about our taking in a small, intimate supper following the festivities? I have to make a speech, naturally, and there will be more back patting and flattering the dowagers, but we can get away at say… sixish?”

  Dianna made her eyes big and round and pursed her lips coquettishly. “Why, that would be terribly daring, don’t you think?”

  You have been in Canada too long, Sir Rupert thought, though he had a well-rehearsed, ready answer. “I think it would be lots of fun.”

  Dianna forced her nose to wrinkle. “So do I.”

  Quite unexpectedly Cordise asked a question that momentarily unsettled her. “I understand you have a husband?”

  Quickly gathering herself. Dianna made a studied reply. “Yes, he’s in the Far East with the Royal Navy. And I’ve been alone for sooo long.”

  “Fine then, supper it is. Just the two of us,” Cordise added with a leer.

  Time: 2117, GMT, July 26, 1940

  Place: D’Estange, off Piccadilly Circus

  London, England

  During the repast of cold squab and salmon in aspic, Dianna regularly found the hand of Cordise on her knee. He leaned toward her, his body language all but describing the superlative wonders of his bed. Distractedly Dianna chewed at the dark breast meat of the squab. Cordise set his fingers to kneading her knee. With some effort she changed her position and moved his goal out of reach. Quite suddenly she realized he had been speaking intently to her about something of which she had not the least idea.

  “I’m sorry. My mind must have wandered for a second. What is it that you were saying?”

  “Generally speaking, how do the people in Canada take what’s going on over here? Hitler threatening invasion, the bombing, all of that.”

  Dianna had to improvise from her briefing. She had never in any time been in Canada. “Most people are angry, of course.The Empire is threatened, the terrible bombing, that sort of thing. They also feel that with an ocean separa
ting them from the enemy, the Atlantic on this side, the Pacific on the other, they ought to stay clear.”

  “That won’t last for long.” Then he began to probe. “Yet how about you? How do you feel about it all?”

  Instantly alerted, Dianna realized that throughout the day Cordise had been talking around something besides getting her into bed, and she was sure she knew what it was. He sought to sound out her ideas and where her loyalties lay. She hesitated, and feigned giving the matter serious thought.

  “I ... fear for my husband. Thank God there is little fighting in the Orient so far. I’m worried for my country, certainly. Angry at the indifference of the rest of the world, more than at Herr Hitler.”

  Cordise pounced. “Why’s that?”

  Adroitly, Dianna made it up as she went along. “I ... don’t know exactly. Germany has always been an aggressive nation, expansionist. Hitler is an unusual person. He’s ... compelling. Some of what he says, about other people, other races, and how scandalously his country was treated after the last war, has the ring of truth to it. Yet he is menacing our homeland.” She eased off, shook the bait a bit, not yet ready to set the hook.

  “What if someone in authority—a Member of Parliament, say—were to tell you that the Germans do not represent a true threat to Britain? What if this person were to suggest that an amalgamation with our Anglo-Saxon—er—Aryan brothers in the Reich would be for the greatest good of England?” Cordise eased back in his chair. His hand found her knee again.