Christopher Nuttall - The Long Hard Road

Ironically, Travis Mortimer had never considered a serious political career, until the shambles of the collapsing Labour Government had pushed him to the fore. His membership of the Party in Edinburgh had been little more than a way to pass the time, but when the MP for his constituency resigned in a hurry, in 2016 or 1941PT, however you wanted to look at it, Mortimer had been invited to stand for the post.

He’d refused at first, but the death of his brother onboard a Royal Navy submarine had convinced him, and he’d run for Parliament in a bye-election, winning by a fairly substantial majority. The Labour Party hadn’t been welcome in the election and the opposing candidates had been party hacks, rather than people who were serious and sober. Mortimer had lived in Edinburgh all his life; they’d been brought in to stand for the position.

Idiots , he’d thought at the time, the sheer insult to his constituency driving him on. He’d fought and won the election with enough of a majority not to be relegated to the backbenches, as most new MPs normally were, and he’d swiftly taken control of New Labour. Old Labour, the traditionalists, glowered at him, but they hadn’t prevented him from establishing a power base.

Mortimer smiled to himself. It was not enough to do anything substantial, not as long as Hanover’s coalition remained in being, but it was enough to make a serious noise, if necessary.

“Travis?” Mortimer nodded as his sister Elspeth entered the room. Tall and dark haired, she’d agreed to serve as his social secretary; socialising wasn’t his strong point, no matter how many puns and plays on words the papers made about the whole business.

“Yes, Elspeth?” He asked. “What’s happening?”

“That female reporter is finally here,” she said, her mouth twisted in a look of disapproval. “She’s dressed rather like a slut.”

“Now, now, we need the media,” Mortimer reminded her. “They have to post favourable comments towards us, or we’re sunk when the time comes for elections.”

Elspeth gave him a dry look. “When that asshole in Downing Street decides to call them,” she sneered. It was an old argument; Mortimer didn’t bother to respond to it. She looked him up and down, her eyes examining every part of his dress and face. “You shaved,” she said, in a tone of mild surprise. “Do be polite to the little slut.”

Mortimer smiled. “Don’t worry, mum,” he said. “I’ll be careful.”

Charlene Molesworth studied Travis Mortimer with interest as his secretary led her in to his private office. He was young, in his mid-thirties, and possessed shiny short black hair. He was dressed neatly in a conservative business suit, standing up to shake her hand with a firm and professional handshake.

“Thank you for allowing me to come,” she said, as she checked the camera. The computer experts would use the footage to produce a complete picture of the room later. She checked that the live feed direct to the BBC was running – more than one person had tried to smash a camera after saying too much – and checked his appearance. Even with the modified cameras, some people still looked odd through a camera in bad lighting.

“Are you ready?” She asked. She was obliged by law to check before activating the camera. Some reporters left the cameras running, confident that their subjects couldn’t detect the operating system, but it had led to more than a few lawsuits.

Mortimer smiled at her. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” he said. “You may fire when ready, Gridley.”

Charlene smiled and activated the camera. “Good morning,” she said. “I’m live with Travis Mortimer, the MP for Edinburgh South and one of the people trying to claim the mantle of Leader of the Opposition. Mr Mortimer, nice to have you with us.”

Mortimer smiled, a politician’s smile. She distrusted it on sight. “Thank you for interviewing me,” he said. “Please call me Travis.”

“Mr Mortimer, ah, Travis, you have been considered the anti-war candidate,” Charlene said. “How do you respond to that charge?”

“With scorn and disdain,” Mortimer said cheerfully. “After the Germans bombed Dover and London, and their actions in the Middle East, I don’t think that anyone can really object to fighting the war. However…”

“You are on record as objecting to the awarding of an OBE to Admiral Turtledove and a similar award to General Flynn,” Charlene interrupted. “In particular, you accused Admiral Turtledove, the commander of British forces in the Far East, of incompetence, despite a Board of Inquiry ruling in his favour.”

Mortimer smiled, unabashed. “My comments about Admiral Turtledove were pushed forward by a series of mistakes made by him, including the Battle of the Indian Ocean and…”

“The Board of Inquiry ruled in his favour,” Charlene reminded him.

“That was a whitewash,” Mortimer said evenly. “Any competent commander would not have remained still while the Japanese closed in on his fleet.”

Charlene blinked. Her earphone whispered in her ear. “The Board of Inquiry ruled that Turtledove had to remain with the damaged ships, or else the Japanese would have sunk them while the rest of the fleet escaped.”

“No he didn’t,” Mortimer said calmly. “He could have opened the range with his missile-armed ships and saved them from possible destruction, and quite possibly have saved the crippled ships as well. However, that was not the only incidence of incompetence; he allowed the Japanese to land in Australia and he lost a submarine to Japanese ASW efforts.”

“Submarines have been lost before,” Charlene said.

“During the Iran conflict the USN lost a nuclear-powered ship,” Mortimer agreed. “However, that was against an Iranian ship which had roughly equal technology and a great deal of luck.”

“And you do not feel that the Japanese might also have been lucky?” Charlene inquired.

“No, because there was no reason for the submarine to be close enough for them to even get a sniff of her,” Mortimer said. “Her torpedoes could have sunk any Japanese ship, with the possible exception of a battleship, at long distance without coming close enough for them to get a sniff. Even a battleship could be sunk by two or three hits.”

Charlene frowned. “And that is your only reason to accuse the Government of incompetence?” She asked. “During the Falklands War a number of ships were lost, simply because they were overwhelmed.”

“Oh, in plain numbers, we’re already past the losses of the Falklands,” Mortimer said wryly. “But that leads to another point; we’re not doing enough to find the missing hostages in Germany.”

Charlene considered. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” she said, prompted, “but are they not looking for a handful of people in a very large haystack.”

“Although that is a bad metaphor, yes,” Mortimer said. “And, of course, the Government isn’t doing enough to knock-out the German factories, let alone the Soviet factories.” He smiled. “We have precision weapons and satellites in orbit; we should be hammering them round the clock.”

“That is a problem,” Charlene agreed. “Would you advise the use of nuclear weapons?”

Mortimer was too wily a politician to fall into that trap. “Finally, the Government seems determined to resurrect the British Empire,” he concluded. “I believe that over-extension was what got us the first time around; we should be concentrating on ourselves, not on people who will be ungrateful. Will we get a second round of immigrants from the new states in the Empire?”

He scowled. “Have we unnecessarily provoked trouble with France by unilaterally annexing their colonies and preparing for a five-year transition to democracy?”