John Schettler - Grand Alliance

His mind went round and round about it. Could they say this unit had been sent from England, a highly classified war secret, with new weapons and vehicles being deployed for the very first time? This was a lie that would soon become the thin veil it was, for one look at a Challenger II up close, or a good look inside the command compartment of any of these vehicles, would reveal more than he could explain away with that line. There were touch screen digital panels, technology and equipment that would amaze and dazzle any man of this era. He remembered the look on Tovey’s face when they brought him aboard Kirov and showed him the missiles and radar stations up close. And Tovey had a whole other life to prepare him for what he saw there. In fact, he had come to the truth about the ship they had once called Geronimo all on his own, albeit with the able assistance of Alan Turing.

Telling O’Connor the truth would be like throwing the man in ice water just now, but he would have to know, just as Kinlan had to know. The future would have to meet the past here, shake hands to reach a mutual understanding somehow, and it was up to him to make that so. But how? How could he wade in gently, and slowly lead this man to the truth?

“Russians? This is a Russian aircraft?” O’Connor gave the KA-40 a good long look, amazed. “I had no idea they were working on helicopters.”

The idea had been around for centuries, and several British thinkers had experimented with designs for such aircraft. Even Jules Verne had brought one to life in his book The Clipper of the Clouds, and Thomas Edison had modeled helicopters in the United States long ago. So it was something O’Connor could grasp without undue difficulty, yet there had never been an engine powerful enough to make the dream a reality-until now.

“We’ve been working on these for quite some time,” Fedorov had Popski explain. “Ever since Igor Ivanovitch Sikorsky and Boris Yur'ev experimented with designs in the early 1900s. Your own Westland Corporation is also interested in this kind of aircraft.”

“When they see the likes of this one their eyes will bug out,” said O’Connor.

“It’s a very good platform for search and rescue,” said Fedorov. “And it is excellent in reconnaissance. Let’s get up there and have a look around.”

Small steps, thought Fedorov. Get the man airborne and see what develops. Every bird learns to fly in due course. He would have to take things one step at a time, and see if O’Connor would eventually come to the same conclusion Tovey did-that there were things in front of him that no man could build in this world. That would be the moment to ease him over the final line to the real truth. For the time being they would tell O’Connor that Kinlan commanded a detachment sent here to reinforce Siwa, and leave off the details, which would become apparent over time.

“Fergusson has been begging for reinforcements,” said O’Connor. “It’s a wonder Wavell had anything left in the cupboard to send out here. How many are you? It was night and the bloody sandstorm made it impossible to see much, but it certainly sounded like there were a good number of vehicles in your detachment.”

“Yes sir,” said Kinlan. “They got the 7th pulled back together, though you are correct, we’re just off the boat, in a manner of speaking.”

“Well it’s about time we got support from England. I realize its all of 40 days to get here round the cape. Where were you serving back home? Were you with 1st Armored Division?”

“What else?” said Kinlan, as he knew that most of the armored reserves in early 1941 had been cannibalized from that division back home in the UK, and his own 7th Brigade was, in fact, still a part of the British 1st Armored Division in modern times.

They were out over the desert, and heading southwest. Fedorov was worried Kinlan would get talked into a corner by O’Connor, so he tried to keep the man distracted with the reconnaissance, and it was not long before O’Connor spotted something, his eyes keen enough to recognize movement on the desert, as he had spent many hours airborne over a battle zone himself.

“There,” he pointed.

The thin streams of dust were telltale evidence on the desert floor below. Something was moving there, the first probing outriders of an advance heading east.

“That has to be out from the Italian Garrison at Giarabub,” said O’Connor. “Just one little fish I couldn’t net when I moved west earlier.”

When he made his sweeping attack to smash the Italian position in Cyrenaica, a small garrison under Major Salvatore Castagna had been marooned at Giarabub, well over 200 miles south at the edge of the Great Sand Sea. It was one of the most isolated outposts the Italians had established, and was largely held to keep watch on the British controlled oasis at Siwa, some miles to the southeast. It was also a holy place, where a mosque and tomb of the founder of the Senussi sect attracted small groups of pilgrims from time to time, but now they were all gone. The Italian Army had come in their place.

“Look there, General,” Fedorov pointed as he handed Kinlan a pair of field glasses. “What does that look like to your eye, Berbers?”

Kinlan had a look and could see more than he wanted there. Those were obviously small patrols of armored cars, though he had never seen anything like them out here before. O’Connor seemed to know what they were, however, and shook his head.

“Damn little Autoblinda 41s. They’ve a nasty 20mm autocannon and a pair of good Breda 8mm machineguns. But those scout vehicles that rounded us up looked to be enough to handle them. What were they, something new?”

“Just out of the oven,” Kinlan smiled.

“The Captain says he can get you photography of those buggers to look over later,” said Popski. “But I’m more concerned with what’s behind those patrols. See that dust column there?” He had a keen eye for movement on the desert as well, having spent many days with his small patrols in this desolation.

“That has to be a larger force.” Popski did not know it at the time, but he was pointing at an unusual new arrival, the 136th Giovanni Fascisti Regiment, the fanatical Blackshirts that had been sent by Mussolini to try and put some backbone into the Italian infantry. They were here early, not having arrived in Libya until July of 1941 in the old history, and now they were out to begin writing the stubborn chapters they had etched into that history, by holding out in the face of overwhelming odds at places like Bir el Gobi. The British would come to call them “Mussolini’s Boys,” and they would soon reach Major Castagna’s garrison, adding three more battalions of tough infantry to the two already there.

“If that is what I think it is, then that Colonel Fergusson down there at Siwa is going to have more on his hands than he realizes soon.”

“Fergusson?” O’Connor remembered now. “Yes, 6th Australian Cavalry was out here keeping watch on Giarabub, but this looks like a strong reinforcement. I hope your boys are ready for a good fight,” said O’Connor. “If they get up some real strength here they just might get a notion to pay a visit to Siwa. It’s got much better water sources, and a couple decent airfields.”

Kinlan smiled inwardly, realizing that Fergusson was the name the Russian Captain told him to ask for at Siwa. Dobie’s section of the 12th Lancers had scouted down and found the man there, along with a company of Australian motorized cavalry and a battery of 25 pounders freshly arrived, and commanded by Jock Campbell, the man who had given his name to the famous ad hoc “Jock Columns” the British had used so successfully in these early desert forays. He gave Fedorov a knowing look, realizing the Russian had been straight with him all along, though it was still hard for him to believe what was happening to him, and to all the men of his brigade.