JET LAG! (35 page)

‘What was the old fucker up to now?’ he pondered.

***

‘Yes, Fuhrer, a great success. Your advice to move the ‘Blaue-Tod’ was inspired – as usual. The British bombed the two unoccupied airfields into oblivion – flattening several small French villages in the process. The propaganda value is immense. The Messerschmitts were wonderful and they report three British jets destroyed. If we could only find their base, we could finish them once and for all!’

Hitler was jubilant.

‘Yes, Hermann, a very good night. Also our bombers are pummelling the British in their cities – I am assured by our spies that their patience with Churchill is fast disappearing. I believe that we can bring forward the date of invasion. I have spoken with Kesselring and he advises me that all is ready with ‘Sealion’. I have decided to invade on the eighth – in three days’ time. Do you not agree?’

Goering was not a man for bucking the trend or disagreeing with Adolf Hitler.

‘Absolutely, mein Fuhrer. My Luftwaffe will be ready to support the landings. I will devote myself to the task.’

‘Excellent, Hermann. I trust you will join me for lunch at Buckingham Palace in due course, and I will enjoy seeing that devil Churchill dangling at the end of a rope – nicht war?’

Goering nodded his approval and left the room.

His star was definitely rising.

He would visit that fool Canaris and apply yet more pressure to find the British jet base. However, it was not now to be destroyed but captured. The advanced technology could help the Nazis in many ways.

***

Sir Henry Morrissey had one more job to do before he could return to his own timeline. He wasn’t even sure if that they would indeed end up in their own 1992. It was a calculated gamble – but it was essential that he try.

He summoned the wayward Patsy Jackson and confirmed with her that she was indeed pregnant and that Todd was the father. The interview was merciless – the AVM wanted the truth from the wretched girl. When he was satisfied, he summoned two military policemen who had been standing by outside and they escorted Patsy, via a side door, to a waiting car.

Patsy was somewhat alarmed at the conduct of the AVM, and started to struggle as she was bundled into the car by the MPs.’

‘Please don’t give us any trouble, miss. You’ll only hurt yourself,’ warned one of the escorts.

The car drove off and after about an hour, took a turning and travelled for ten minutes along a gravelled driveway and pulled up outside a large country house surrounded by woods and fields. It was totally secluded.

A nurse met them at the entrance.

‘Miss Jackson, matron. She’s all yours now.’ The MP was matter of fact.

The car drove off leaving Patsy staring at the nurse wondering what the hell was going on.

‘Please come inside dear. We’ll be looking after you now.’

Patsy was really frightened by now.

‘But what about my friends at Cardington. I'm supposed to be going home in a couple of days! Why am I here?’

The matron was calm and composed.

‘Please don’t worry about all that dear. This is your home now – at least for a while. Please come inside and I’ll show you to your room.’

Patsy was in a state of numbing shock, so meekly followed the nurse inside.

Eight months later Patsy gave birth to a bouncing baby boy – and they called him John.

She died in childbirth, as many girls did in those days; however her son was healthy and was adopted shortly afterwards by a family who belonged to a travelling circus.

Todd was told that she had run away.

Frankly, he was happy to believe the fabrication – he preferred to think that she would probably be better off that way.

The trip home would be fraught with danger and he liked to consider that at least his unborn child was safe.

52

RAF Cardington

7 September 1940

A final memorial service was held for all of the airmen and women from 1992 lost in 1940. It was a sad and disheartening affair, but Todd reasoned that it might give some of his troops a crumb of comfort. They prayed for a safe journey home and returned to the task of preparing the two remaining aircraft for the short flight into the Wash the following day. The three wounded men were declared fit to fly by a local medical officer, and so special brackets were fitted on the C-130 to hold their stretchers.

The weathermen were forecasting heavy thunderstorms for the next morning, which encouraged the team immensely. The prediction of a window back to 1992 might just be genuine after all.

The AVM had been no more forthcoming and Todd kept his distance. People were surprised that Patsy had run away so close to the escape bid, but realised that there was little that they could do about it. It was her choice. Some considered that it might have been a very good idea.

By 1700 hours on the seventh of September the two aeroplanes were fully prepared and loaded. They were full of fuel and as serviceable as they ever would be. All traces of 1992 equipment were stowed away – nothing could be left in 1940 which might give a clue to their presence. However, there must be thousands of local people now aware that something odd was going on in the skies of Britain. Clearly, the government would deny all knowledge of anything untoward, and subsequently put all of the unusual activity down to ‘scientific experiments’.

The Tornado and Canberra Recce variants – or what was left of them – had been broken up, crated and transferred to a small hangar near Warton in Lancashire. The VC10 was scrap metal and was being actively recycled, and all of the other aircraft were with the fishes in the North Sea. Except for the ADV in the swamp near Middle Fleckney – there would be nothing left to find.

All 1940’s RAF personnel were sworn to secrecy, and the military perimeter guard force was split up and posted to separate duties across the Empire. They would all soon forget their short time at Middle Fleckney and Cardington, as the war became more intense.

Sir Peter Andrews returned to his parliamentary duties and spent many happy years bringing up his
two
children.

At 1800, a staff car arrived at Cardington and the Prime Minister addressed Force 1992 for the final time. He wore his signature Homburg and smoked the customary cigar.

‘I drove here especially to thank you for your contribution to our war effort. Sadly, it may have all been in vain. The attack on the Nazi airfields in France was a total failure – the Me 262s were not there. I truly regret the loss of your comrades on such a fatal mission – but we had to try. In addition, our intelligence indicates that the Germans are on the verge of setting sail on an invasion of England. It could happen at any time, so your imminent departure is fortuitous. I wish you God speed on your journey home tomorrow and trust that you find your world as you left it. Goodbye and good luck to you all.’

With that curt speech, the Prime Minister got back into his car and drove away.

Force 1992, now down to forty five personnel, merely stood in silence as the vehicle disappeared through the hangar doors.

Todd spoke first.

‘I think it's time for our final departure checks, a meal and an early night. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow - and our take-off time is 0900. There will be a final briefing at 0700 followed by breakfast. Are there any questions?’

The silence was deafening.

53

St Clement Danes, London

              The cathedral was packed.

Relatives, friends and colleagues sat next to politicians, senior officers and members of the public. Even the Queen and Prince Phillip sat quietly in the front row with the Prime Minister, John Major. The Archbishop of Canterbury was conducting the service, although it was secular in nature. The whole country watched on their television sets as all terrestrial channels took the broadcast.

              In fact, the whole nation was in mourning for the eighty-two men and women missing since the extraordinary events of the first of April. No trace of their aircraft or their bodies had yet been found. It was one of the most complex conundrums ever to confront the modern world. How could eighty-two professional military personnel  - and their aircraft – disappear without trace in an instant from the skies above the North Sea? Experts throughout the world had put forward their theories, but none had yet solved the riddle. The search would continue in the North Sea in an attempt to recover something – even the slightest clue to help unravel the mystery.

              In the meantime the world grieved and this Service of Remembrance was being held as an interim mark of respect and mourning. Answers must and would be found – but for the time being the families of the missing servicemen were being given the chance to say goodbye.

At the back of the church, mainly going unnoticed were two extremely interested parties. They had travelled down from Lancashire where they worked and shared a large house near Preston. Sir Phillip had been invited as the Chief Executive of British Aerospace, and represented the company’s interest in the disappearance of twelve of their aircraft.

Yes, Sir Phillip and his sister, Constance Andrews were fascinated by the events of the first of April 1992.

54

Somewhere over the Wash

8 September 1940

Todd Morrissey hardly slept that last night before the planned flight back to 1992.

He didn’t really believe that any of his surviving dribs and drabs did either.

The only man that had probably slept soundly was his bloody father. Todd was still aghast at the unbelievable behaviour displayed by this very senior RAF officer. He had blatantly and unapologetically hoodwinked more than eighty people into travelling through a
time portal
into 1940 to take part in a bizarre lost cause!

Well, it seemed like a lost cause to Todd. The invisible Jim Charles – who unbeknownst to Todd, had been permanently silenced on Churchill’s orders at 6am that morning – had tried to demonstrate that the timeline they currently inhabited was not ‘
exactly
’ the one expected by the AVM when he embarked on this unauthorised mission.

The Me 262s were three years ahead of schedule – and God only knew what advances Hitler and his maniacs had made with the A-bomb. The United States more or less supported the Nazis, preferring a neutral non-interventionist stance, rather than getting involved in a European conflict. As a consequence, with Japan a minor power in this parallel world, the Americans probably hadn’t even considered setting up their ‘Manhattan Project’ – advanced research into the plausibility of an A-bomb – which was dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in Todd’s 1945. That would clearly never happen, so Hitler had a virtual free hand to completely overwhelm the British Empire and convert it to Nazi ideals.

Only an undefeated Britain could stop them and it seemed that an invasion was imminent. If that German attack was successful – then the civilised world was doomed.

It was a damned good thing that Todd and his team were getting the ‘hell out of Dodge’ that morning. It seemed to him that his father’s plan had failed. By some weird quirk of fate the Force 1992 had ended up in the wrong place – which led him to his next question.

How could anyone guarantee returning to the correct parallel universe later that day? And that was the point – if Jim Charles was right, then there were an infinite number of parallel and similar, but critically different universes, waiting to gobble them up.

It was a terrifying scenario and Todd became dizzy just thinking about it. There was no point in going over the theories with his subordinates as it would achieve little – except to confuse and alarm them unnecessarily. He would leave well enough alone and hope for the best. He was eager to see his wife and children again – but what if he returned to the wrong time and another Todd Morrissey was already there?

Oh, dear God…..it didn’t bear thinking about – so he stopped. It was time to get up and head for home.

He showered, shaved, dressed and packed the small amount of kit he had. He also strapped on his Walther PPK – just in case.

When he walked into the hangar, most of the team were already there, packed and waiting – it was 0700 hours.

The time portal was to be just off Cromer at 0935 – in the centre of a large Cumulonimbus cloud – basically in the middle of a huge thunderstorm. It was incredibly dangerous flying, as a Cu-Nimb could rip the wings of a jet aircraft in a heartbeat – with down-draughts of up to two hundred miles per hour having previously been recorded. However, they had little choice – it was ‘shit or bust’ and Todd settled down to his final meal in 1940 full of trepidation and fear for what the day might bring. He had already looked outside to check the weather, and to his relief the weather was appalling. Large, dark clouds surrounded the airfield and violent showers were passing through about every twenty minutes. This was exactly as it should be if the plan was to succeed.

However, he was presented with some very bad news as he tucked into his cereal and toast - eggs were still a rarity and could not be spared.

His father sat beside him and greeted him sternly.

‘Wing Commander, are we ready to depart? I trust that everything is in order and that your personnel are fully prepared?’

‘Yes sir. We are planning an 0900 take-off, which gives us thirty-five minutes before the TOT. That's plenty.’

The AVM changed tack.

‘We might have to cut it finer than that. I have heard some disturbing news. British intelligence has detected a large German invasion force departing the French coast. Our aircraft and naval fighting vessels are attempting to thwart it, but I'm told that it's highly likely that this attack may succeed. However, we have one factor in our favour – the British weather. As with the Spanish Armada back in Drake’s time, the seas in the Channel are extremely challenging this morning and German vessels are making little headway at present. Nevertheless, their long range artillery is pounding Dover and their aircraft are attacking in force where they are able. That is why I suggested that we might have to cut our flight time to the bone. What is the absolutely latest take-off we can manage? If we are up for the minimum of time, it's gives the Luftwaffe less time to interfere with our escape.’

Todd nodded and checked his briefing notes:

‘The Herc needs the full twenty-five minutes. It's one hundred track miles to Cromer and we will have to travel at around two-forty knots. 0910 is the latest take-off we can allow.’

The AVM looked pensive.

‘Ok, we’ll go for some time between 0900 and 0910 and just hope for the best, and that no Me 262s find us before we find that cloud.’

‘My Tornado will be armed with missiles and guns, so I’ll be there to protect you if it becomes necessary. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it's time for the final briefing. I plan to start engines at 0830 and taxy at 0845. All personnel will be on board the C-130 by 0815 and Stumpy and I will follow you out. Will you want to speak to the team before take-off?’

Sir Henry smiled weakly.

‘I don’t think that any of them want to hear what I've got to say. I'm a pariah and so be it. I've made my bed and I'll lie in it. As they say – we’ll talk about it on the ground – on the other side.’

As he finished his sentence an enormous flash of lightning enveloped the hangar, followed by the loudest clap of thunder Todd had ever experienced.

‘Jesus H Christ! I hope we get a break in this bloody weather so we can actually get airborne.’

‘It makes no difference, Wing Commander. We go whether the weather is suitable or not. It really doesn’t matter if the ride is rough – or if we crash in the attempt – we must be ten miles off Cromer at 0935 – or we will end up stranded forever.’

Todd knew the score and he fully realised that they would have to risk a launch in any weather. He stood up and walked towards the group of airmen waiting expectantly at the rear of the C-130.

It was 0800.

Todd stood in front of his troops and spoke to them for the last time.

‘Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Well, what can I say? It's been an emotional, mystifying and at times a heart-breaking experience. None of us wanted to be here and we've all lost many, many colleagues and friends in this weird alternative world. Like all of you, I just want to go home and see my loved ones again. I don’t know what the hell we are going to say to them – but I'm sure that the AVM has got it covered.’ The sarcasm was not lost on his audience.

‘At the very least, there should be a few books and TV documentaries and films in it. You’ll all be very rich – so maybe that's a small consolation. For me, I would like some answers – and I promise you that if – sorry, when we get back I will demand the truth. There has been a conspiracy to trick us into this ghastly adventure, and somebody will be paying the price for their treachery and disloyalty. However, that is for later. Now we have just a short twenty-five minute trip to complete and we should be home. Thank you all for your support and effort over the past couple of months. I suggest that you now load up and get those engines started. Strap in tightly and hang on. Good luck – I’ll see you on the other side.’

There was a small ripple of applause, but Todd ignored it and walked over to Stumpy, shook hands and wished him good luck.

The AVM climbed aboard the C-130 and assumed the duties of a co-pilot, in the absence of the aircrew officer killed in the air-raid at Middle Fleckney.

Local airmen from 1940 took up the duties of  ‘start-up crews’ and within thirty minutes both aircraft were sitting in the hangar, engines running, ready to taxy.

It was 0842.

The gigantic hangar doors slowly opened and the rain from a passing thunder shower streamed through the opening. A flash of lightning lit up the dank greyness looming outside and foreboding ran right through Todd’s bones.

The Hercules taxied first and headed for the runway threshold, followed closely by the last remaining Tornado, which was armed to the gunnels.

The airmen on the Herc were filled with dread and anxiety, but the hope, faith and positive expectation more than overcame their concerns. Todd was not so confident. It was teeming down with rain, and the taxiway and runway were badly flooded. The drainage in 1940 was not up to 1990s standards, making the take-off extremely hazardous. In normal circumstances no sensible aircraft captain would even remotely contemplate flying in these conditions. They would all be back safely in the crewroom quaffing coffee, playing Clag and munching Kit-Kats!

However, as the AVM had already made clear – they were taking off – whatever the weather. They taxied warily to the runway threshold and prepared to line up in several inches of water.

It was 0900.

‘Purple Two, take-off?’

ATC replied instantaneously.

‘Purple Two, clear take-off. Good luck, old chap. Rather you than me.’

The C-130 pulled onto the runway, ran up its engines and as a huge clap of thunder roared overhead, rolled away and disappeared into the spray and rain.

Todd immediately taxied onto the runway and called ATC.

‘Purple One, take-off in turn.’

‘Roger Purple One. Clear take-off – Bon Voyage and good hunting.’

Todd keyed his mic twice as Stumpy ran up the jet engines. When full power was reached he released the brakes and rolled down the flooded runway. If they had to stop now, they would surely skid and slide to their doom. Stumpy monitored his instruments whilst simultaneously watching the C-130 get airborne. He didn’t want to lose sight of the prop aircraft in this diabolical visibility – but he wasn’t holding out much hope.