“Oh, shit,” he said. There was no overt record that the submarine had returned to the base… yet there was a record that Artful had taken delivery of eighteen torpedoes, which meant that she had fired off some of her previous load. He scowled; the submarine had returned to base, and yet the log said clearly that it had never returned to Britain at all. The only proof that Artful had returned was the proof that it had been rearmed… and had some minor maintenance conducted.
“But that makes no sense,” he muttered. “If the ship had had an engine fault, such as the one that forced it to surface far too close to the Japanese, then it should have been noticed in the dockyard and…”
The date glared up at him. Artful had returned to port on the 26th of September – without any mention that it had done so – and the crew had clearly taken no shore leave at all. The entire process had been carried out in secret… and he knew what else had happened during that period. The Royal navy had been engaged on search and rescue duties…
On the 25th of September 1940, an American battleship and a British liner had been blown out of the water, apparently by a u-boat sunk three days later by HMS Coventry. The u-boat should never have been able to get that close to Britain, not with all the patrols, and it should certainly not have been able to get a shot off at both fast ships.
“No,” he said. The thought refused to vanish; the Artful had destroyed both craft, reloaded, and headed off to meet its rendezvous with destiny… after having had some work done on the ship. Might the repairers have sabotaged it enough to ensure that the ship – and its crew – were lost?
“Oh, God,” he said grimly. “What the hell do I do now?”
He knew what the procedure was; he’d certainly read enough books and seen enough movies. The hero would recruit the one incorruptible politician, or media spokesman, and broadcast the news to the world. The only problem was simple; life didn’t work like that. All he had was a chain of inferences; not enough to force anyone to do anything.
He took a deep breath. Only one politician had been calling for an inquest into the loss of the Artful, and perhaps he would be interested. Except… that would be betraying Hanover, who’d been good to him and helped his career, and who’d been very good for Britain. Attacking him – and the charge that he’d deliberately sunk the ships had been levelled before by both the Germans and Hoover – would only damage Britain’s interests; at worst, it would mean a war with America.
“What the hell do I do now?” He asked himself again. “What the hell do I do now?”
Travis Mortimer would have laughed at the irony. The Opposition – the Liberal Democrats – had been quite happy to tear him to pieces for weakening their position in the House of Commons, but Hanover had invited him to visit the centre of British Government. It was in recognition of his power, he was certain, even though Elspeth disagreed.
“It’s an attempt to shut you up,” Elspeth had said. His sister now walked beside him, her face twisted by a frown. “The Prime Minister has a duty to ask you to resign.”
Mortimer smiled. Naturally, he had held against the battering from Tim Barlow and his flunkies. By dividing the Liberal vote, he had threatened Barlow’s own power base. By exposing the weakness of Barlow’s position, he had lost, but he had also won.
“Quite spectacular,” he said, as he was shown into the Prime Minister’s office. Somewhat to his disappointment, there was no sign of the famous red button. The room was well decorated, however; a writing desk sat against the far corner that had been supposed to have belonged to Charles Dickens.
“It’s an old family heirloom,” Hanover said. He sounded vaguely amused. “It’s a fake, of course.”
Mortimer lifted an eyebrow, feeling Elspeth seethe beside him. “Why would your family have kept a fake writing desk?” He asked. “It’s not as if its worth much.”
Hanover looked innocently at him, his face guileless. Mortimer felt a flicker of suspicion. “Because it’s a writing desk,” Hanover said. “Whatever something’s origins, it may still have a worthwhile place in the world, don’t you think?”
Mortimer couldn’t quite escape the thought that there was something that he was missing. “We have come to discuss matters with you,” Elspeth said. “May we be seated?”
“Of course,” Hanover said. If he was surprised by her rudeness, he didn’t show it. “Please, have a seat?” He waved them to chairs. “Should I send for tea?”
“This isn’t a social call,” Elspeth snapped. “We have come here on business.”
“I was under the impression that Travis, your brother, was the MP,” Hanover said. “Still, perhaps we could get to the point?”
“HMS Artful,” Mortimer snapped. “The submarine that was lost due to incompetence.”
“I do trust that you’re not blaming that on the ship’s captain?” Hanover asked mildly. Mortimer felt a sudden flicker of rage. “That would be… embarrassing.”
“Was that a threat?” Elspeth asked. “We know that Artful engaged a target and then returned to port – what was that target?”
Hanover seemed to become very still. “A German u-boat, perhaps,” he said. “A surface ship?”
“They didn’t have any back then,” Elspeth said. “I believe that Artful fired upon the American ships.”
Hanover lifted a single eyebrow. Mortimer saw a flicker of triumph in his eyes. “Might I ask how you came to this remarkable conclusion?”
Elspeth opened her mouth. Mortimer talked across her. “We’re not at liberty to reveal our sources,” he said. A friend in the dockyard would have been dropped into very hot water indeed if Elspeth had given him away. “However, we know that Artful fired upon the American battleship.”
Hanover chuckled suddenly. “I’m tempted to let you go out believing that,” he said. “However, I would strongly prefer that you didn’t. Your brother’s memory would be ruined. Artful did indeed engage a target, but it wasn’t the American battleship, the West Virginia.”
“So you admit that Artful carried out a secret mission,” Elspeth said. “What did our brother do for you?”
Mortimer flinched at the acid in her tone. “The entire affair has been clouded in secrecy,” Hanover said. “I might add; this has happened for a very good reason. If you persist, you might have to face something terrible.”
Elspeth glared at him. “You’ll send James Bond around to do us in?”
“No, I’ll tell you the truth,” Hanover said. “Do you wish to know the truth?” One eyebrow quirked. “Are your truth-handling abilities up to it?”
Mortimer grinned. “How do you know we won’t tell everyone?”
Hanover ignored the question. “You might be better off ignorant,” he said. “You won’t tell anyone because you’re not stupid enough to do so. Do you still want to know?”
Mortimer took a deep breath, then nodded once. Elspeth nodded grimly. “You were half-right,” Hanover said. “Artful, under Captain Mortimer, did indeed engage an American ship, but not a battleship. Rather, it engaged an SSBN, USS Tennessee.”
Mortimer blinked. “The Americans do not have nukes,” he said.
“They did in 2015,” Hanover said. “How were we – or they – supposed to know that we would fall back in time? You know how hard it was for us to adapt; think how back it must have been for the crew of the American submarine.”