TS01 Time Station London (5 page)

He had been a soldier, and a pilot, since 1917. As a callow youth he had idolized
Freiherr
Manfred von Richthofen. His hero worship had not dimmed with the death of the famous Red Baron. Yet he had admired the tall, dashing young officer who had replaced him. Hermann Göring had been a bold, daring, efficient squadron leader and quickly earned the respect of the pilots of the Flying Circus, and many of the other squadrons. Especially those of
Schulflotte
1703, to which Werner Ruperle belonged at the time. That had been then, now was an entirely different matter.

Unlike many of his brother officers, Werner Ruperle had not embraced the National Socialist German Workers’ Party with unbridled enthusiasm. Something seemed not quite right with the party’s leader. Enough so that he regretted the inevitable time when Bruno joined the Hitler Youth. Abruptly, he reined in his musings. Having such convictions could be dangerous to anyone, especially someone in his position.

Suddenly the door swung open, admitting his orderly and a sheet of raindrops.
“Herr Hauptmann,
the latest report from those time-serving meteorology people.”

Ruperle took the message form and read swiftly. “‘There will be a general clearing over the English Channel and the Portsmouth area, beginning at fifteen hours.’ The mission is on after all, Ferdy,” he exclaimed to his executive officer.
“Gott sei Dank!
I will be getting out of this French mud hole after all.”

Time: 0915, GMT, June 14, 1940

Place: Hamphill Aerodrome RAF Base,

Warwickshire, England

“Two-three-one aircraft, you are pulling ahead in line. Maintain two thousand revolutions if you please.”

Sergeant Wendall Foxworth winced at the sound of his squadron leader’s voice in his earphones, made even harsher by the sneer of contempt. Hell of a way to start a routine morning patrol. Sgt. Foxworth applied a touch of toe-brake.

“Righto, Captain Marsh,” Wendell said to himself.

Damn it all, there was something definitely wrong with his Hurricane this morning. Could it have something to do with this bleedin’ light rain? He couldn’t help it if the engine surged from time to time. He had tried to explain to the maintenance sergeant. The sod wouldn’t hear a word of it. Now it got him in the shorts with his squadron leader.

Sod them all! To Foxworth, anyone who didn’t fly one of these delicate birds hadn’t any right making decisions regarding airworthiness. Gritting his teeth, he keyed his mike.

“Righto, Able Leader. The old mill is running a bit rough this morning.”

“Sure it’s not its driver?” the voice came back, the question full of menace. “You clocked, in a quarter hour past curfew.”

Keerist! Did he have to let the whole squadron know?
“Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again, sir.”

“Very well. Line up for takeoff. Vees of three.”

Foxworth winced at that. Bloody childish. Especially when everyone knew the proper term was
Vics,
with no mention of the number. With the assistant squadron leader in the first Vic, Wendall Foxworth on the starboard wing, Kip Fallon on port, the first three Hurricanes turned off the taxi strip and took proper station on the Hamphill Aerodrome active runway. A quick instrument check, set the brakes, then full throttle. Run up and back down, check magneto, oil pressure, engine rpms. Now full throttle. Watch for the roll. Here we go!

The trio of Hawker Hurricanes streaked down the Hamphill runway, striving for that first lift of true flight, the point of rotation. Wendall felt the wings strain to break free and hauled back on the stick. The wheels cleared the ground. Gear up, flaps up, nose to the sky. The Hawker pounded and thundered. Wendall Foxworth felt a surge of elation. True to habit, Sgt. Foxworth looked off his right wing as his climb-out continued toward turnout. Below on the ground, he saw a solitary figure. One who stood with arms and legs akimbo, eyes turned to the sky, outside the barrier fence, astride a bicycle. Foxworth blinked. For a moment she appeared to have familiar curly, dark brown hair and a memorable figure. Then at the moment Foxworth dropped his starboard wing to turn out of the pattern he saw the Home Guard helmet dangling from a handlebar and he knew for certain it was Sandy Hammond. Well, he thought. Things were certainly looking up!

Time: 0940, GMT, June 14, 1940

Place: Time Station London

Brian Moore returned to 1940 London twenty minutes after he left. He went straight to the operator’s station where Vito sat relaxed, yet alert.

“Anything come in while I was gone?”

“Nope. All is calm on the battlefield,” Vito quipped.

Brian grimaced. “It won’t be for long. We’ve been assigned to round up an unknown number of rogue travelers. They’re profiteering on valuables ‘destroyed’ during the war.”

“Oh, how jolly, what?” Vito mimicked the locals of the time. “Any idea where to start?” Brian studied Vito idly. A master Temporal Technician, he was also an expert archivist and researcher. Definitely suited for a Warden’s job. He had also learned that, as a boy in his late teens, Vito had been recovered from a car that had exploded in early 1950’s New York City. The result, so Vito said, of an inter-Family dispute.

“No. We will have to dig them out on our own.”

“How do we do that, Brian?”

Brian shrugged. “Plain old detective work, I imagine. You might begin by checking a list of art treasures lost in the bombing. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

When Brian entered the MI-5 office, half an hour later, he wore the usual conservative suit and tie. He settled in his office and reviewed several reports of suspicious persons in and around London, Portsmouth, Birmingham, and other industrial or port cities. The man with whom he had an appointment arrived ten minutes late.

“Blasted traffic,” he apologized. “I could have walked it faster.”

“Maybe you should have,” Brian suggested. “They say it is good for one.”
But not for another twenty years.
“Now, then, Mr. Gregory Thornton, I suppose you know why you have been called here.”

Thornton gave him a puzzled look. “Frankly, no, I don’t.”

“As the chappies down at the Yard put it, you’ve been called in to assist us with our inquiries.” Unobtrusively, Brian pressed a signal button with the toe of his shoe.

Although Thornton did not outwardly react, the shock told in his voice. “What are you getting at? And whose inquiries, I might ask?”

Wigglesby silently entered the office behind the seated gentleman and stood in readiness. “Why,
ours,
of course.”

Growing agitated, Thornton leaned forward and put fire in his words. “And who, exactly, are you?”

“I’m with the Home Office.”

That brought Thornton upright, a scowl wrinkling his brow. “Then I’d advise you to be more forthcoming. I am well acquainted with the Secretary.” His mustache quivered.

“Oh, not
that
Home Office. MI-Five, you see.”

Thornton tried for bluster, only to fall short into splutters of outrage. “Wh—what in hell ever can the Domestic Intelligence Service want with me?”

“That transmitter you have, for starters. The one hidden in the attic of your garage, hummm?”

All color drained from Thornton’s face. “Oh, my God. I never thought… I mean, that’s exactly what I thought. That’s why I put it out there in storage. I am bonkers over amateur radio, you see. Or
was,
until the government asked us not to go on the air because of the war.”

Maybe this one was genuine, Brian surmised. He seemed seriously upset over it. “Do you have any proof of this?”

“Yes, of course. I still have my license. It’s here in my wallet. And I have my QSL cards. Been collecting them since I was a lad, using a crystal set and telegraph key.”

“I see. I’d like to see those. The license now, and the cards later on. Are they dated?”

“Oh, yes. Do you want me to bring them in?”

“No. I’d like to see them where you keep them.”

Thornton began to look more relieved. “They’re on the walls of my study. We can go there now. I’ve left the office for the day.”

“Good,” Brian agreed. Out in the reception area, he paused at the desk of Sgt. Parkhurst. “I’ll be seeing Mr. Thornton to his home. Then I’m off to Coventry.”

“Very, well, sir,” Parkhurst returned briskly.

Time: 1310, GMT, June 14, 1940

Place: M-43 Highway, London to Coventry

Warwickshire, England

Mid-June in the Midlands showed little difference to all of May. It rained less, only every other day, though the sun did not come out until eleven of a morning, sometimes later than that. Fully leafed out now, the trees made dark green swaying blobs. Brian drove himself, considering that he would be mixing business with pleasure, and would no doubt stay the night. The only problem with clear afternoon skies, Brian told himself, was that it not only brought out the sun, it brought the Germans as well.

He received immediate reminder of that a few minutes later when an elderly man in a Home Guard helmet and WWI uniform too small for him flagged down Brian’s Austin.

“Sorry, sir,” the elderly air raid warden greeted with apology. “The Jerries are coming. There’s goin’ to be a raid up the road a piece.”

Impatience sounded in Brian’s words. “Yes, I understand. But I must be in Coventry before five o’clock.”

“Oh, you’ll make that right enough. Coventry’s not the target. It’s only that I’ve got me orders. Nobody is to be on the road. No need to make targets for the Messerschmitts. Their pilots like to put a hand in, as well as the bomber laddies. Will you be so kind as to pull off the road, sir? Right under that oak would be fine.”

Muttering under his breath, Brian complied. He drove the sleek, gray Austin up close by the massive trunk of a royal oak and cut the engine. Irritably he sat staring at the distance out the windshield for the tiny specks that would denote the German aircraft. He hadn’t long to wait.

First came the outriders, part of a squadron of Me-109’s. Behind them, in echelon, came ranks of Me-110 Bf’s and Heinkel 111’s. At higher altitude, beyond Brian’s ability to see, though he knew them to be there, flew the dreaded Junkers Ju-88-A-1’s. And with them would be the Stukas, the original Ju-88’s. The nasty little dive-bombers had sirens fastened on struts between their fixed landing-gear.

Wind-driven, those sirens rose to a pitch that terrified those below on the ground. All the more so when the Dantesque banshee wail cut off suddenly, signifying the release of a five-hundred-pound bomb and the vertical climb-out of the delivery vehicle. Although too far off to hear the warning alarms from the target, an industrial complex on the edge of Leicester, Brian soon saw the small black puffs of exploding antiaircraft shells. The sky turned stygian as growing numbers of rounds detonated.

Brian marveled at how any aircraft could pass through such a gauntlet unscathed. He knew that many did not, and had his understanding verified shortly when one of the Heinkels burst into a red, black-edged ball. Flames engulfed the wing root and the port side peeled off before the mortally wounded bird plummeted to earth.

Moments later, tall, black columns of smoke snaked skyward from the target. Rippling thumps reached him, reminding Brian of the sound made by a cat jumping off a table onto a hardwood floor. Over Leicester, the tiny dots turned to port in a wide 180 which would take them back to their bases in France. Faintly, Brian heard a thin keening in the air that announced the entry of the Ju-88’s.

Where were the Spitfires? Brian wondered. Why hadn’t they come to mix it up with the Germans? With a flash and a roar, they came seconds later. Low to the ground, they sped over the tree under which Brian had parked and streaked northeast toward Leicester. They dwindled rapidly to V-shaped images like a flight of ducks before they swarmed upward at the unprotected bellies of the Nazi bombers.

Streams of tracers made an unholy glow as they merged on the metal skin of one after another German plane. Then the separate, hostile flights coalesced for a twinkling, held an instant longer, then separated. Up and over went the Spitfires, then back down. Messerschmitt 110’s and Heinkel 111’s began to fall from the dome of blue. Flames erupted around the nacelles of several engines. Pilots frantically feathered props and vainly applied internal fire extinguishers.

More aircraft fell to their doom, taking along many of Germany’s fairest youth. The slaughter continued, with Brian as silent witness, until the Me-109’s got turned around and dashed back on their attackers. First one Spitfire exploded, then a second spurted gouts of oily smoke and orange flame from the engine compartment. The canopy blew open and the pilot bailed out.

Immediately a Messerschmitt turned off to make a pass at the helpless man in his parachute harness. A Spitfire followed and the Nazi failed to bring honor on Hitler. Desperately, the pilot tried to escape his wounded craft, only to die horribly as the Spit he had trashed collided with his own plane.

By then the air battle had moved closer to Brian’s vantage point. He looked on in an oddly detached mood. Could this be what combat pilots felt? he wondered. Gradually the fighting swarm diminished into the east and the stutter of machine-gun and automatic cannon fire faded to silence. Across the road, the Home Guard air raid warden came out of his sandbag bunker and blew a whistle, signaling the all clear. Brian started the engine of the Austin and drove off toward Coventry.

Time: 1430, GMT, June 14, 1940

Place: Offices of Warwickshire Movers (M1-5 front)

Brian found Samantha behind her desk in the MI-5 office behind the Warwickshire Movers. She greeted him with the cool demeanor of a subordinate to a superior. Then, when her secretary left the room, she welcomed Brian much more intimately. Their kiss lasted a long while, enough for Samantha to entwine an arm around Brian’s neck and to draw one leg off the floor.

Brian came up gasping for air. “That’s certainly a better welcome than I get from any of the lads at the home shop.”

Samantha made a moue. “I certainly hope so. I’m taking you to Oliphant’s tonight, so I want you on your best behavior.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

“You had better.” Samantha frowned. “The raids today were terrible. More than two squadrons of them. They hit Birmingham, too.”

“Later. We can talk all about the raids then. I saw Leicester getting it from the road. Well, from under a royal oak, really. Now, I have some work for you.” From the Gladstone he habitually carried, Brian took several file folders, which contained files and photos of suspected rogue travelers. “I want you to take a really good look at these men. Old Foggy Bottom”—their irreverent nickname for Sir Hugh Montfort—“has gotten it from someone that they may be Nazi agents. We have no way of knowing, certainly, and you may scare up something.”

“I’ve about had it up to here with this work.” Samantha held her bladed hand out under her nose.

Brian took her at her word, yet sought to forestall discussion to another time. “How can you be burned-out on such an exciting and varied occupation?”

Samantha gave him a pained expression. “After dinner, luv. I’ll tell you how after dinner.”

“Something tells me I’m not going to enjoy it.”

Brian spent the next hour going over her progress reports on current subjects under suspicion. Then they worked together until six o’clock on a project euphemistically called “Denial of Easy Access.” Suddenly, Samantha found herself fascinated.

“I would never have thought of something so simple as this. Removing all the roadway markers and street signs. Of course. Someone who did not live there would never know where they were. The same goes for bridge weight limit signs, right?”

“That’s what they came up with at Home Office. Most English bridges will not support the weight of an armored tank. But do the Germans know that? You know, Sam, Germany is the only country I’ve seen that has weight limit signs for automobiles, lorries, tractor-trailers,
and
tanks.”

Her eyes suddenly wide, Sam asked incredulously, “You’ve been to Germany?”

“Yes, before the war.” Brian had to tread carefully. Samantha might be a fellow counterespionage agent, but she was not a Temporal Warden. She had no idea, as did most people, past and future, that such transportation existed outside the pages of sensational pulp fiction.

“What was it like?”

“Pleasant. Especially Bavaria and the Schwarzwald. The farms are neat and precise, very efficient. Their children still dressed in native costume then. The girls wore dirndls and the boys lederhosen, with little green or brown Tyrolian hats. Although what impressed me most was that
everything
in Germany is neat, precise, and very efficient. Almost… obsessively efficient.”

Samantha’s expression changed from curiosity to sorrow. “That sounds so sad. If they are so… so
controlled,
how did Hitler get such sway over them?”

“I think it is because they are as they are that Hitler came to prominence. Remember, he came out at first for strong law and order, an end to the Communist demonstrations, food riots in the big cities, that sort of thing. And he does call his Third Reich the New World Order.” Brian paused, grinned foolishly. “Maybe I’m reading too much into it. I’m not a Political Science type.”

Samantha reached over, touched his arm lightly. “You underestimate yourself. I think you’ve shown marvelous insight.”