“He had to run down to the main communications centre at the anchorage this morning,” Thorne replied as he finished pouring and returned the bottle to the shelf behind the bar. “I believe there are a lot of people in very high places who’ve been asking after us and he’s the only liaison they have at present. He should be back in the next hour or so.”
“Bit early for that, isn’t it…stress getting to you already?” She joked with a grin, nodding her thanks at the answer and changing the subject.
“You might say that…” He shrugged, suddenly appearing a little uneasy. “Going to have a few words with Trumbull this afternoon about what’s going on here.”
“What are you going to tell him?”
“The truth I suppose, sans a few important facts that’d do more harm than good and aren’t relevant anyway. Not speaking about his future was another of his brother’s stipulations and one that I intend to stick to if I can help it. I’ve seen the man’s record: Trumbull was — is — a bloody good pilot and a pretty sharp bloke all ‘round by the look of it. We could do a lot worse than have him on board and it mightn’t hurt having a few links with this world within our own ranks.”
“Well if Nick’s not about I’m going to do a run around the defences to kill some time — make sure the crews have got themselves settled in. That should take an hour or so and give me a chance to warm up.” She locked eyes with him for a few seconds, her expression one of the fondness and sincerity of old friends, which they were. “Good luck with Trumbull…I’ll have my radio on if you need help.”
“Cheers, Eileen…I’ll see how I go…”
Thorne found Trumbull in his quarters, staring sullenly out the window at the busy goings out on the flight line beneath overcast skies. A two-day-old Scottish newspaper lay discarded on the bed…he’d tried to read for a while but had found himself too restless to concentrate. The scowl he gave Thorne as the Australian knocked and entered told a great deal of his annoyance.
“I thought you might be here,” he ventured, attempting a grin as he stepped into the room.
“Not much else I can do, is there?”
“Yeah, sorry about that…” Thorne apologised, his nervousness building. “Must be a bit bloody infuriating trying to work out what’s going on, I guess.”
“You have that entirely correct, old chap,” Trumbull replied, the words carrying a little more annoyance than he intended. “I believe I’m entitled to an explanation or two. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that everyone here is rather busy at the moment but I really would like a few answers.” His tone was level and good-natured: the man wasn’t particularly upset about things; just confused and desperate to find out what on earth was going on.
“‘Bout time I owned up, eh?” Thorne asked with a wry smile, but inwardly he shuddered at the thought. “I guess I owe you that, much as I don’t relish the idea. Why don’t you come for a walk with me and I’ll explain a few things. I’ve also got some stuff I’d like to show you.”
Trumbull shrugged a warm jacket on as they stepped outside and they walked off slowly toward the main flight area and the long, concrete runway. Despite still being nominally summer, the weather could be unpredictable that close to the Arctic Circle and there wasn’t a great deal of warmth in the air. The prevailing winds that whirled across the generally bleak and featureless landscape, depending on their direction, originated from either the North Atlantic or the North Sea and in either case there was always an icy chill to them.
Thorne took a deep breath and there was a moment’s silence as they walked and the Australian gathered his thoughts.
“You remember yesterday in the plane you said you didn’t think an aircraft like the Lightning could exist?”
“I said that, yes…” Trumbull conceded, remembering clearly.
“Well you’re right, after a fashion… You’d be pretty much right in regard to all four of the aircraft out there.” He waved a hand toward the group of planes they were approaching. “Although I was flying yesterday, I’m not actually a fighter pilot either, although I used to be…” As the RAF pilot nodded in acceptance of the information, he continued. “Actually I sort of work for the British Special Intelligence Service.”
“An SIS operative from Australia…” Trumbull stated blankly. The squadron leader knew little of the British intelligence service other than its name, but he suspected it would be unusual for an Australian to be working for the government in the intelligence field — at least, so high in intelligence as to be involved with such technically advanced equipment. He didn’t know a great deal about Australia at all really, save for the country’s strange animals, excellent fighting troops and a tedious penchant for fielding annoyingly good Test Cricket teams.
“Not so usual in these times, I’ll bet…. not that that’s particularly relevant…” Thorne conceded. “I’ve been assigned as commander of the unit you’ve seen arrive last night. “We’ve been tasked with stopping the men behind the German War Machine and getting history back onto its correct course.”
“You’re not exactly on your own you know, old chap…” Trumbull sniffed disdainfully, his professional pride a little insulted. “We’re all trying to do our bit as best we can.”
“You don’t understand, yet…” Thorne began, his voice trailing off as he searched for the right way to begin. He suddenly realised this was something he’d in no way been briefed for adequately. “Shit…” he muttered softly and dragged the hip flask from one of his jacket pockets. Taking a drag of booze, he cringed a little at the taste before offering the flask to Trumbull. As the man hesitated, initially refused, then also took a pull at the alcohol and cringed, Thorne grinned a little. It appeared the scotch was neither man’s preferred drink but he was sure they’d both be able to cope.
“Okay…” he began again, determination renewed as they walked on. “Let me give you an overview of what should be the correct path for the Second World War. The Wehrmacht rolls across the Polish frontier on the First of September, 1939 with the tacit support of the Soviet Union, and the Western Allies declare war on Germany on September Third. The Germans roll right on through France and the Low Countries during 1940, blitzkrieg tactics pushing all before them.” His tone and style became more confident and convincing as he gained momentum, instinct joining forces with his knowledge and training as he began to feel more comfortable and in his element.
“In 1941, the Germans solidify their position in Europe, although Britain is never invaded and the Krauts instead invade the Soviet Union in June of that same year with Operation Barbarossa. At the end of ‘Forty-One, the Japanese launch a surprise attack on the American Fleet at Pearl Harbor and start pushing through Indochina and the Pacific Islands, and things look good for the Axis forces for the next year or so: battles continue to go their way through this period, save for a few isolated instances. Nineteen Forty-Three becomes the pivotal year however, and by ‘Forty-Four the tide has seriously turned in the allies’ favour.” He took a breath and another drink while Trumbull stared at him as if he’d gone mad. He forged ahead, not a chance of stopping the ‘lecture’ now, and Trumbull again didn’t refuse the flask that was offered. The alcohol was providing Thorne with the little bit of extra courage he’d needed to push through his inadequate preparation and he hoped it’d also allow the RAF pilot to become a little more open minded.