“The subsequent artillery duel lasted no more than twenty minutes… possibly a good deal less… and by the time it was over, all of our guns were destroyed with great loss of life. Our longest surviving gun — Piecemaker — was buried inside Guston railway tunnel after it was collapsed by what appears to be some kind of delayed-action or ground-penetrating shell. Substantial damage and casualties were also inflicted upon Dover’s civilian population, and General Dill was killed by a landslide at Shakespeare Cliff after two shells from these weapons sent a huge section of the cliff below their OP crumbling into the sea. No observable damage was inflicted on the German guns: both continued to fire after all of our assets were wiped out.” He took another breath and released a soft sigh of frustration and sadness. “Knowledge of the incident has been impossible to contain…”
“Rumours are spreading already, Mister Thorne: lots of them!” The Prime Minister took over as Brooke’s voice faltered. “Morale that was worse than terrible to begin with has fallen even further as a result.” Churchill’s voice quavered slightly, more out of indignance and anger than fear or despair, as he slapped his palm down hard on the surface of the table in irate punctuation. “The RAF is on its knees. The army has been decimated at Dunkirk, and we cannot get enough ships across the Atlantic in either direction to properly resupply it. Our navy — on paper the greatest sea power in the world — huddles in defended anchorages, unable to sally forth lest they incur the wrath of U-boats we cannot find, and aircraft we cannot stop that find us!” The man was in a mood that showed the desperation of the times… there was still the defiance, but the Prime Minister was clearly aware of the magnitude of the danger they now faced across The Channel.
“I commend Hindsight’s intentions in coming to our aid as you have, and the information you’ve already provided has made a difference, I cannot deny…” He shook his head with finality. “…But this ‘difference’ is not enough! For the last year we’ve discussed at great length with Brigadier Alpert the whys and wherefores of your United Nations’ decision to send Hindsight back to June of 1940 rather than earlier, and I understand on a level of rationality why this was done… but this is not a rational time!” The last part of the sentence was not a shout, but the intensity of the words didn’t suffer for lack of volume. “In your making this vain attempt to influence history as little as possible, the result has been only to leave us hamstrung! We now know that the Germans will come… we know they will bring with them vastly superior technology… but we have no time to do anything about it!” His hand swept back off the table in a frustrated and dismissive manner.
“I do not pile this anger at your door alone, Mister Thorne… nor yours, Commander… but you both must see the bittersweet irony of this. All your unit has ultimately been able to accomplish is take away our hope… there’s no time for anything else. We’re sending everything we have into harm’s way… and it’s not enough! One of the reasons I was grateful of the opportunity to meet with you both tonight is so that I might ask you for help, now, in dealing with this menace… help that will make a difference and have some greater effect that merely showing us in stark clarity the doom that awaits us. I will not demand… I do not believe that is necessary… but I ask Hindsight for help right now. There’s a chance this may mean the sacrifice of one, or both of your aircraft, and I understand the severity of this, but I ask all the same. When the enemy comes to This Island, and I say ‘when’ because we all know now that he will, then every man in uniform will be asked no less — and many more planes and many more lives will be sacrificed in our defence. I ask nothing more of Hindsight than I ask of them… or of myself, should the time come when I must also take up arms and put my own meagre capabilities to the test.”
And as his last sentence came to an end, his proud and piercing stare burned Thorne’s eyes and spirit with the force of it. Already pushed to the limit of his physical and mental endurance last few days by the stress of command and problems with alcohol — mostly alcohol — he was forced to lower his eyes and stare silently at the tabletop. He felt almost on the verge of tears, such was the power of that impassioned and defiant plea, and although the other men in the room couldn’t see it, Eileen Donelson certainly could. He felt her hand reach gently across beneath the table where it couldn’t be seen gave his hand a squeeze. He was grateful for the gesture, although he really felt like a drink… followed by a good many more.
After a very long moment, during which the Prime Minister — an astute judge of character at any time — allowed the man time to collect his thoughts, Thorne raised his eyes once more and met the man’s gaze head on. His expression was almost fathomless, save for the faint whiff of a mirthless smile at the corners of his mouth. He released a breath that was half sigh and half snort and was obviously and deliberately a signal of decision.
“Put up or shut up, eh, Mister Prime Minister?” He observed, resolve forming in his features as Sir Winston gave a single, faint nod of accord and recognition. “When we get back to Scapa Flow, I’ll have our best people start drawing up some possible alternatives for some kind of meaningful, strategic strike. At this point, I can’t give you any details — I don’t have any to give — but I will say it’ll be unlikely that any attack will be directed at that gun emplacement. Reuters will know Hindsight may be the only way to destroy those guns, and he’ll have preparations in place as a result.” He paused for a moment, and Eileen knew he was arguing with himself as to how much to tell the Prime Minister and Ironside. “There may be other, alternative targets that would be far more effective in dissuading the Wehrmacht from mounting an invasion… Either way, Mister Prime Minister, I make this guarantee that we will make use of the force we have at Hindsight, and that we’ll have an outline of the use of that force to you by the end of the week… Fair enough, sir?” This time, Thorne’s eyes defied the other man to find fault or flaw.
“More than ‘fair enough’, Mister Thorne… and thank you… I make no apologies for these desperate times, but I acknowledge this must be doubly difficult for people such as you, who have come from a time of freedom and peace.” He took a breath, and there was another pause as the tone in the room lightened decidedly. “Now, dear people… on to other matters… what was it that you wished to ask of us?”
“Mister Prime Minister,” Thorne began, nodding his acceptance of the change of subject. “You’ve no doubt been informed of the enemy’s probing air attack this morning. The most pressing of our problems is the ongoing issue of fighter support. I recognise the RAF has little to spare, but if we’re to have any hope of survival at Scapa Flow, or anywhere else for that matter, we must have enough fighters to provide a constant barrier air patrol during daylight hours and, that being done, enough reserve aircraft to mount some kind of credible defence should a threat materialise. If that attack had been a massed assault, there’s every chance I’d not be here with you at all.