“All business today I see, Albert!” Reuters shot back with a smile. “Müller put dry ice in your bath again this morning?” The pair laughed lightly for a moment before the Reichsmarschall moved on to more serious subjects. “No… I didn’t bring you in for that. Yesterday’s ‘testing of the water’ at Scapa Flow went remarkably well…”
“…Unless you were one of the pilots…” Schiller added dryly with dark irony.
“…Remarkably well…!” Reuters continued, intentionally ignoring the remark. “I’d very much like to make use of that success before the bastards have a chance to find their feet. They’re going to at least suspect they’ve a traitor in their midst, but it’ll take them some time to dig anything up doing the usual background checks and such like… I don’t intend to allow them that time. We know they still haven’t received any conventional aircraft from Fighter Command to assist their defences, and I’ll be very surprised if they receive any at all… everything the RAF has is already needed in the south to combat our bombing campaign down here. They’ve already had to bleed Twelve Group white to the point of non-existence, and Ten and Eleven Groups aren’t much better.”
“So all they’ll have are flak guns and the two jets.”
“Exactly… Raeder is planning a breakout of Carrier Group Two in two days time, and there’s an excellent chance we could see most of the Home Fleet sortied from Scapa Flow in response. Müller’s guaranteed us two days of heavy fog patches along the eastern side of the North Sea that’ll make it difficult for the Englanders to track us, but they’ll have to come anyway — the Royal Navy’s never shied away from a fight yet, and I don’t expect them to this time, either. The Marineflieger will have some surprises prepared for them if they do, and it’ll also mean the anchorage will be relatively empty, meaning no large warships to provide Hindsight with extra heavy flak protection.”
“So our ‘asset’ — as you so eloquently put it — takes out their radar again, this time for good?”
“Yes… a proper job this time… and they’ll get precious little warning as a result. SKG1 will carry out a massed bombing run at high altitude: the commanders are already briefed and prepared.”
“We’ll lose a lot of planes, even if they do just have the jets!” Schiller winced at the likelihood of survival as the crewman of a propeller-driven heavy bomber in combat against missile-armed, 21st Century fighters.
“If he has time, our asset will also try to take the fighters out… or at least delay their take off. There probably will be heavy casualties, but one F-35 and an F-22 can only carry a finite number of missiles and shells for their cannon. They’ll probably knock the whole of One Gruppe out of the sky within minutes, but they shouldn’t have any missiles or guns left after that and will be forced back to base to reload. They’ll not get a chance to get airborne again. Sufficient numbers will carry the day.”
“Well, that should make the Führer happier…” Schiller observed sourly, little humour showing, although his face then suddenly brightened as he recalled the news he’d come to advise Reuters of originally. “By the way… just got a report from one of or ‘contacts’ at the Abwehr: a ‘little bird’ told him our ‘good friend’, Oswald Zeigler has been seen swanning about an awful lot closer to the front lines that any of that lot would be at all used to.”
“Do tell?” Reuters urged, a sudden and keen interest showing in his eyes as he took another sip of his brandy.
“Apparently, the esteemed Herr Zeigler arrived in Boulogne-sur-Mer yesterday for the purpose of an afternoon hunting trip in the woods with…” he paused to bring some suspense to his next words “…another fine ‘supporter’ of ours, Brigadeführer Ernst Barkmann.”
“Well… well… well…” The Reichsmarschall mused softly, finding the news more of interest than of any real concern. “It seems that scum, much like water, eventually does find its own level. Any insight into what might’ve been discussed?”
“None at all — our sources never got close enough to monitor conversations,” Schiller shrugged. “Never going to be anything good with those two involved, though.”
“No doubt,” Reuters agreed with a nod. “Do keep an eye on that would you? There’s a good fellow.” His mind chewed over a few thoughts for a silent moment, before he added: “Another thing: our man on the ground there probably won’t last long after the attack — they’ll know we have an insider for sure by then. Make sure our man has orders to kill Max Thorne if he gets the chance.”
“Thorne, dead or alive, won’t make much difference if we take out the hardware…” Schiller pointed out, well aware that his commander already knew that.
“No, it won’t at that…” Reuters admitted after another pause, a dark fire in his eyes now. “But it’ll make me a good deal happier, Albert… See that it’s done…”
Downing Street, Whitehall
Westminster SW1, London
It had taken far less red tape than anyone had expected to organise Hindsight’s meeting with the Prime Minister, as if Whitehall had somehow already been awaiting their call. Thorne and Donelson had flown down to RAF Stanmore in the F-35E that evening after sunset, and rode in a black government car through the heart of the blacked out city. There was no light whatsoever save for the almost non-existent illumination of their large Humber sedan’s masked headlights, and the trip was quite nerve-wracking for passengers far more accustomed to motorways and powerful quartz-iodine driving lights.
They were stopped numerous times by both military and police checkpoints and roadblocks, although their papers and authorisations allowing them instant passage, and on three separate occasions, Luftwaffe bombings on industrial targets had forced wide detours as ARP wardens waved them on and behind them, fire-fighters fought desperately to contain several major fires. The scenes they witnessed, so much like the old black-and-white footage they’d seen of The Blitz countless times growing up, were now right there before them in living, deadly colour. It was an incredible, eerie sight that left them on edge throughout the trip.
On arrival they were met by an army staff captain who escorted them directly to the Cabinet Room. Already seated at the long, polished table was the Prime Minister ,accompanied by two other men, one of whom — wearing a general’s rank and staff officer’s uniform — Thorne found vaguely familiar, while the other — a young man dressed in an expensive suit — he’d never seen before in his life. Several folders lay on the table before the men, whose identities were soon revealed as all three stood upon Thorne and Donelson’s arrival.
“Mister Thorne… Commander Donelson,” Churchill began with a familiarity that seemed a little forced “…so glad to have you both here with us this evening. May I introduce a young fellow I doubt you’ll know… Rupert Isaiah Gold. Mister Gold is here acting as proxy for a businessman who’s long been a supporter of mine, even before I became prime minister, and who’s also a steadfast opponent of Nazis. His employer has already provided unmeasurable support to England, and has some further assistance to lend to the Hindsight Unit, but more on that later in the evening…” He paused for a moment before continuing. “I would also like you to meet General Sir Edmund Ironside… he’s sitting in as Chief of the Imperial General Staff tonight.”