Reports from Kent, leading the 2nd Cruiser Squadron, confirmed the presence of an enemy battle fleet to the south at that same moment; a fleet comprising at least three capital ships and numerous smaller vessels. That new information basically decided the issue, and Tovey gave orders for the fleet to carry on, while two destroyers remained behind to protect the stricken Malaya. The veteran battleship would be forced to fall behind and make repairs on her own, and if that could be done quickly enough, she might still take part in the upcoming battle… if she could rejoin the rest of the fleet in time.
Hindsight emergency airstrip ‘Alternate’
Eday, Orkney Islands
Alec Trumbull sat above the cargo area of the C-5M, surrounded by the empty seats of the transport plane’s passenger deck. Eileen Donelson was in the cockpit, using the Galaxy’s radios to maintain contact with Whitehall and Home Forces GHQ in an attempt to keep abreast of the ongoing battle in the south. Particularly of interest was the main battle raging in Kent that represented the largest established Wehrmacht beachhead: also the area of fighting into which Thorne, Kransky and Ritter had flown hours before. Thorne had taken a belt radio, and they’d received sporadic reports relayed via Whitehall, but the last of those had been over an hour ago, and the message had been brief. It’d been little more than a notification the Swordfish was on the ground, and that they’d joined a convoy of fresh troops moving toward the front. There’d been no further word since then, and the strain was starting to show on all their faces. Then there’d suddenly been a new, direct communication from Thorne himself, patched through a number of radio relay links along the long axis of the country. Trumbull hadn’t been able to pick out the exact nature of the conversation that had transpired between Thorne and where Eileen sat beyond the bulkhead leading to the Galaxy’s flight deck, but the Commander’s voice was raised by the time it had finished, and she’d clearly been left in a poor mood.
“The man’s a pig-headed bloody idiot…!” She snarled angrily, stomping out of the cockpit in disgust as Trumbull rose to his feet instinctively. Eileen caught his concerned stare and forced herself to calm down a little. “He’s got Ritter there, with Richard to keep an eye on him, and still Max refuses to get out of there until he’s sure they’ve got the bugger back to his own lines!”
“Surely he realises the risk to himself!” Trumbull observed with mild disbelief. “He can’t endanger himself like this!”
“Tell him that, Alec,” she shook her head and gave an angry half-growl of exploding breath. “He takes no bloody notice of me!”
“The longer he waits, the harder it’ll become! Even after dark, enemy night fighters will make the flight back almost suicidal!”
“I told him that…!” She moaned plaintively. “I told him all that, and it made no bloody difference! I might as well…!” She was cut off as another transmission from the radio beyond the hatchway caught their attention, this time with further news of the invasion.
Alec remained standing as Eileen dived back onto the flight deck and received the new information. He was torn in a number of directions by the news… torn between his natural instincts, and the conditioning of his military service regarding orders given by a superior officer (Max Thorne, in this case). Almost subconsciously, his fingers reached up and touched at the T-shirt showing at the neck of his flight suit. It was the ‘Somewhere In Time’ shirt Thorne had given him as a remembrance of his ‘jump’ in the Lightning that had signified his officially joining the Hindsight team. The T-shirt had come to mean a great deal to him — more than he’d have thought possible in his days before coming to Hindsight — and the significance of it, and what Thorne had done for since, hadn’t gone unrecognised. Not the least of that was the fact that the man had saved his life so many weeks ago over The Channel.
He suddenly found the confines of the passenger deck quite oppressive, and Alec made his way down the access ladder and out into the main cargo bay, a brisk wind whipping past as it channelled through the open nose of the Galaxy and out the lowered rear ramp. The rain they’d experienced during the morning had eased off, but there was still the noticeable feel of moisture in the air, and the dark clouds above threatened more at any moment. He shuddered a little at the cold before making his way down the nose ramp and out onto the concrete runway. Before him lay a makeshift tent camp that was now home to the remains of Hindsight as they waited in anticipation of take off.
The F-35E was also there in the foreground, fuelled, armed and ready for a quick departure. Several makeshift patches of unpainted alloy were clearly visible against the grey paint scheme covering the rest of the aircraft, welded over the holes blown in the aircraft’s tail from Thorne’s battles with the Flankers. Jack Davies was leaning into the forward cockpit, standing on a set of metal steps pushed against the fuselage and seeming to be more interested in swearing softly at the instruments than actually accomplishing anything. As he spied Trumbull’s emergence from the camouflage nets, he dragged his attention away from the Lightning’s cockpit and jumped to the ground.
“Any news…?”
“Only that he’s refusing to stay out of trouble,” Trumbull replied as he reached the American’s side. “Max claims he’s not going to get out of there until he’s sure Ritter has made it back to his own lines.”
“The boy does know there’s an invasion going on, doesn’t he?”
“Luftwaffe fighter sweeps across Southern England are blowing the RAF out of the sky wherever we take off,” Trumbull nodded angrily, “and it’s a miracle he managed to get that Stringbag in there in the first place. Lord knows how he’s going to get out again!”
“Five hours’ flight time back in that thing, with the invasion in full goddamn swing? Jesus…!” Davies shook his head. “Getting the guy back to his own lines means he’ll be a whole lot closer to that front line himself! The Krauts are moving fast wherever they push forward, and he’s really risking the chance of ending up POW!”
“No prizes for guessing how much interest the SS would pay in him if that happened!” Trumbull observed sourly, unimpressed by the thought.
“Shit, they’d have electrodes on his balls faster than you could say ‘Jawohl Mein Herr!’!”
“I should think Reichsmarschall Reuters would make sure any interrogation was more than thorough,” Trumbull mused, and his eyes unconsciously fell on the F-35E over Davies’ shoulder, “which would put Ritter in a particularly difficult position.”
“That’d waste one hell of a lot of the work that Max himself put in here,” Davies added, his eyes also straying back over his shoulder toward the Lightning. He gave a half-smile as he returned his gaze to Trumbull and they both reached the same conclusion simultaneously.
“It’d be rather poor form of someone with the power to right that situation not to do something about it, I’d warrant,” Trumbull observed innocently. “Thorne has one of those radios with him, doesn’t he?” He inquired.