‘Like Dunkirk.’

‘We’re gearing up then,’ Mac noted.

‘We … are setting a template, for which British and American soldiers will follow.’

‘Should Ngomo’s men be reorganised?’ I asked.

‘Rifles are Rifles,’ Jimmy said. ‘He knows what he’s doing. Ours have a different function.’

That afternoon, I noticed a gentle hill near the town, a town that was growing rapidly. With more than two thousand well-paid jobs it was bound to. A few days later, I bought the land from the existing owner, and called in the builders.

‘Guys, a want a road spiralling up and around this hill. At the top I want a nice large house, eight bedrooms. Up the hill I want four-bedroom houses, two storeys - stone and wood, but I want each one to be slightly different, the outsides different. I don’t want people put-off because the houses all look alike. Go to work.’

I went and told Jimmy afterwards. ‘I just bought land and ordered up Spiral One.’

‘The houses will sell well enough,’ was his only comment, his head in a newspaper as usual.

Thinking on, I ordered up a bowling alley - with food and a bar, placing it at the edge of the main drag through town, somewhere for the guys to relax after toiling over our aircraft. Reading the papers, about this new fangled “sound” being added to films, I ordered up a good-sized cinema. Movietone Newsreels would be with us – in a few years; for now the locals would have to endure Chaplain, and an organ player in the corner.

Then we got the bad news. A telegram arrived from Timkins: Jack and Sykes had been in a car wreck, Jack now paralysed. The gang were horrified. Jimmy sent a telegram via the new Bell Atlantic phone cable: “I’m sending a plane. If necessary, I’ll send Jack back.”

I went and sat on my balcony for a while, upset by this turn of events; things had been going well. We grabbed a seaplane being tested, fuelled it, and sent Hal and Hacker across Canada; they’d land and fuel on an inlet in Nova Scotia, weather permitting. If the weather wasn’t permitting they’d land anyway. Fuelled, they set off for the UK, skirting close to Iceland and down over Scotland, no air traffic control these days. They landed on the Thames Estuary near Gravesend, met by the Royal Navy and a tug. Refuelled, Jack and Sykes aboard with two nurses, the aircraft powered off and set a reciprocal course.

Jimmy had grabbed the scientists. ‘Anyone medically qualified?’

‘I passed a medical degree, before switching,’ one offered.

‘Any surgical experience?’

‘A little, but not spinal.’

‘Study what the computer says, just in case we need you.’

‘Will an injection not fix him?’ I asked.

‘Not in the spine, no,’ Jimmy informed the gang. ‘You need to extract cells, grow them, and replace them. But, if the gap between synapses is too great, you need to grow a synapse in a lab.’

‘Fuck…’ I let out. ‘And the doctors here are still using leeches!’

‘We could ask for a doctor, from our time,’ Cookie said. ‘We are close to the Canadian portal.’

‘If necessary, I’ll send Jack back.’

‘That would end his life,’ Cookie suggested. ‘He came here with us because he was so miserable. You send him back, and paralysed, and he’ll frigging top himself!’

‘Could he not return to us afterwards?’ someone asked.

‘Unlikely they would let him,’ Jimmy suggested.

‘So we send for a doctor,’ I said. ‘One that would stay.’

‘Stay?’ Jimmy queried. ‘Why?’

‘We could do with one,’ I suggested.

‘We have Doc Graham -’

‘Who hasn’t operated at a professional standard for twenty years or more,’ I countered. ‘His surgical skills are as good as mine. And Anna is rusty too.’ They agreed, Jimmy still reluctant. I said, ‘Send a signal, and ask for a doctor who’ll join us. You may get ... oh, ten or twenty thousand applying for the job.’

Everyone was in loud agreement.

‘Fine, we send the signal,’ Jimmy agreed. ‘Guys, ready some cars, and a packed lunch; we have a drive to make.’

They set off as the sun set, heading east and towards Manson, a drive through the Canadian Rockies. They arrived just after dawn, breakfast enjoyed in a diner, the cars refuelled. Beyond Manson they found a small bridge over a stream and halted, Jimmy directing the cars into a field. No one was about, no houses for miles.

Jimmy got his bearings, taking his special satellite phone out of its plastic casing. He entered a message: “Urgent, send spinal surgeon who will stay”. It was set on continuous transmit, placed on the damp grass as the guys stood around looking like a bunch of 1930s bootleggers. Jimmy waited in a car, the doors open. To Big Paul, he said, ‘This field is engraved on my heart.’

‘Been through it a few times, boss. You think they’ll send someone?’

‘President Gilchrist would have a hard time with the rest of the world if he doesn’t.’

Two hours later a crack preceded a portal opening, a blue shimmering light soon penetrated by a … women in white overalls carrying heavy bags. She turned and smiled at the people the other side of the portal, the blue disc disappearing. She walked over lugging her kit.

‘Mister Silo, sir, I’m Dr Susan Blake.’ She appeared to be in her mid thirties, dark haired and very attractive, and with a tan.

‘Good disguise you brought,’ he quipped.

‘Ah, sorry, sir, but it was done in a hurry.’

‘Do the idiots on that side know anything about temporal mechanics? You could have taken a year to get ready!’

‘They rushed.’ She shrugged.

‘Guys, grab her bags,’ Jimmy ordered. ‘And you, doctor, if anyone asks you’re a … pilot from an air show.’

‘Oh.’

‘Get in the car.’ Pulling off, he asked, ‘You sound British?’

‘My parents were British originally, but I was raised in New Kinshasa.’

‘You volunteered for this trip? No family?’

‘No family, and yes – I volunteered, along with quite a few others, sir.’

‘Where were your parents from?’

‘Newport, sir.’

Jimmy snapped his head around. ‘Newport?’

‘You … injected them on Christmas Day, 2013; they both had late stage SARS.’

‘Ah.’

‘I’m second generation blood, and autistic – although we say gifted.’

‘So, bright and keen.’

‘My first degree was in microbiology and immunology, my final thesis on my own blood make-up. My second was in general medicine, and my third was in robotics.’

‘Robotics?’

‘I developed artificial neural nets, and artificial replacements for spinal injuries. In my bag I have synthetic nerve tissue.’

‘And surgical experience?’

‘I pioneered a technique to replace damaged nerves, sir.’

‘Good. Jack broke his back; they’re flying him here now.’

‘Flying? Goodness. In what?’

‘In an advanced seaplane we built.’

‘Oh, I see. I had images of a rickety old biplane.’

‘There’re still plenty of those around, but we’ve advanced aviation by ten years or so.’

‘The people back on my world thought that maybe you or Paul had been injured. And I love these cars.’

‘You sure you want to stay here?’

‘If it helps the cause and saves lives, then yes, sir. I grew up in Compound II, West City.’

‘Volunteers?’

‘My parents sold up - and signed up - after you saved them, and I grew up Compound II. I was about six when you came in one day, everyone so excited, and my parents were so pleased when you took an interest in their work. I met Shelly and Helen, and as an eighteen year old I used to drink in Shelly’s Marina.’

‘Are your parents still there?’

‘Yes, and a right pair of hippies,’ she said with a smile. ‘My father still works on biology projects, my mother on green energy.’

‘How did the volunteers … change after I left the first time?’

‘Some saw it as the conclusion and drifted away, but Paul Holton rallied everyone to keep going.’

‘And when I left this time?’

‘Triage; help the people in most need. Our world was safe, this one in danger. They all understood that, no one was angry at you, sir.’

‘You’ll have to stop calling me sir.’

‘It’s odd being here with you, and in another world; I grew up learning prayers about you - and to you. As I youth I looked up at your statue in the main square, and your sayings are everywhere around Africa, required learning in the Middle East.’

‘Middle East?’

‘Some of the sayings are close to what the prophet Mohammed said, so they use them as a kind of we told you so text.’

‘Bloody marvellous.’

‘A young man cares for his family, an old man cares for his tribe, a great man cares for those who he has not yet met,’ she cited.

‘I shall have to shut my trap more often. Have you eaten?’

‘I had a bite.’

‘Big Paul, next roadside diner, please. And Big Paul, try and eat quietly in front of the nice lady, eh?’

Her white coveralls caused a few glances, and outside – after the breakfast, a local patrolman stopped the group.

‘Where ya’ll heading, fellas?’

‘Don’t you know who this is?’ Big Paul shouted. ‘This is Jimmy Silo, the owner of Trophy Aircraft and Columbia Airlines. He just flew non-stop around the world!’

‘Jeez, sorry, Mister Silo, sir. Saw your planes flying over a few times.’

‘Maybe someday you’ll pilot one,’ Jimmy commented.

‘Love to do that, sure would. Ya’ll have a nice drive.’

I greeted the gang outside the hotel, doing a double take at the lady in the white coveralls. A lady!

‘Great to meet you again, Mister Holton,’ she said, offering me a hand.

‘Again?’

‘I met you once in New Kinshasa. I was born there to a volunteer family.’

‘In that case, you’re most welcome. Come on in and … we’ll get you some less conspicuous clothes.’

The gang made her welcome, a thousand questions fired at her, Cookie rustling up some food; she had the blood, so she had an appetite. We allocated her a room, and showed her one converted to a temporary surgical ward. It would have to do.

After a bath, and now wearing Sandra’s period clothes, she sat and chatted to the gang late into the night. 4am registered with a loud fly-by, Hal buzzing the hotel to let us know he was back. Half an hour later a line of cars pulled in, Sykes stepping down gingerly, not quite recovered, Jack carried out on a stretcher, two nurses in dark purple outfits and black capes following. Jack was given a room below the make-do operating theatre, his nurses in attendance.

‘How is he?’ I asked Sykes.

‘Depressed, especially at the prospect of returning.’

‘What happened?’ I asked as I led Sykes to our lounge.

‘Damn fool lorry with no brakes, Hyde Park Corner. Killed our cab driver.’

‘It’s 1925, mate,’ I said with a sigh.

‘Do you think you can fix Jack?’

‘We have a doctor from the future, a specialist with a bag of tricks.’

‘You sent a signal?’

I nodded. ‘She’ll extract a spinal fluid sample and culture the cells first. Then we’ll see.’

‘Was kind of hoping that just an injection from Jimmy might do it.’

I shook my head.

I caught up with Jack later, Jack pushed out in a wheelchair to greet the gang. They lifted his spirits, but we could all see the fear in his eyes.

‘Damn glad of that plane, Jimmy,’ Jack offered. ‘Damn glad.’

‘Good job we had them; a sea voyage would have taken a while,’ Jimmy responded. ‘This is the quack, Dr Susan Blake, and she’s the best there is.’

‘And I’m glad that you’re here,’ Jack said.

‘I’ll extract fluid whenever you’re ready.’

‘I’ll check my busy social calendar. I think I’m free … oh, in the morning.’

‘I’ll check my equipment,’ Dr Blake said, excusing herself.

With just myself, Jimmy, Jack and Sykes remaining, Jimmy said, ‘You remember when they sent Helen to us.’ He waited.

‘No…’ I let out.

‘Yes, so … take one for the team.’

‘She’s a spy?’ Sykes asked.

‘Not a doctor?’ Jack asked, suddenly worried.

‘Oh, she’s a doctor alright,’ Jimmy said. ‘But she made a mistake with her cover story, just a word. She said her mum had been injected by me in Newport. I injected three women, all ageing, and definitely not her mum; they were black. She also ate the local pie without questioning it, something any outsider to Canada would do – especially someone raised in Africa.’

‘I did,’ I agreed.

‘And us,’ Sykes added.

‘So what’s she after?’ I asked.

‘Probably … to safeguard the future direction of the States, although I still don’t understand why they don’t trust me. She may want to make contact with them after the war, knowing my fondness for Russians, Chinese and Africans. If she can persuade the Americans to get into the Congo first…’

‘They’d have the advantage,’ Sykes realised.

Jimmy faced me. ‘She will have been briefed to bed one of us. You’re nominated.’

‘I’ll close my eyes and think of England,’ I offered, but I needed no persuading; she was a dark-haired babe.

‘Then search her room, at length. My satellite phone beeps near others of a similar nature, and they don’t know that. When she’s putting her cold gloved fingers up Jack’s backside, have a look.’

‘My … backside?’ Jack queried, looking worried and making us laugh.

‘I could test her knowledge of the volunteer compound,’ I offered. ‘Just to be sure.’

‘The Americans began sending spies into it not long after I started it,’ Jimmy said. ‘Her knowledge would be perfect. Bed her for the team, she’s very nice.’

‘And she’s probably been ordered to keep one of you happy,’ Sykes pointed out.

‘You ever get the feeling that you’ve done something before?’ I asked Jimmy. Sykes laughed as Jimmy cocked an eyebrow.

The next morning our lady visitor extracted spinal fluid from Jack, and I waved Jimmy’s phone around her room. Beep!

‘Ah well, it’s for the team,’ I told my penis.

Jack was in a better mood now that Dr Blake, our spy, was studying things under a portable microscope from the future. Meanwhile, I had swapped the battery in her transmitter, a battery with a life of around thirty years if not switched on, with one that was almost dead. The scientists then made a slight adjustment to the device when she was clothes shopping in Vancouver. It would never send the right signal, even if she fashioned a new battery with the right power.

Jimmy then sat me down. ‘Always hide a big lie…’

‘Behind a small lie. That transmitter, we were supposed to find it.’

He nodded. ‘She must figure that she could steal mine, or yours, so tomorrow go and bury yours somewhere where only you know, I’ll do likewise. Dislodge the main chip first.’

‘She’s smart, she could make one.’

‘Not for around … twenty-five years I reckon. Probably longer. By then she’ll be on the team, hopefully, and madly in love.’ I wagged a warning finger. Jimmy continued, ‘Oh, I’ve sent someone back to the restroom she used on the way here, to check the ladies cistern. And we’ve checked the cars. She had no other opportunity to hide it, but go around the hotel and outside with my phone and check. As a last resort, I hid an old transmitter in the field a while back. You’d find it … eventually. It’s in front of the big tree stump.’

I nodded. ‘But there’s another problem, one we can’t fix. The portal operators are listening out for radio signals. If she organised a certain radio show in Canada, they’d come get her.’

‘That’s clever … for you. We’ll buy up all the radio stations around Manson, and make sure that she never goes near them.’

‘She’ll probably check her transmitter in a few weeks,’ I suggested.

‘So … you’ll need to take her on trip, far far away. If she’s nowhere near Manson, she won’t fiddle with it. Besides, it’s good for a quick test, which she probably did last night. But, if she’s any good, she won’t use it. She’ll bide her time, see what direction I’m going in, and then act. She’ll disappear and knock on the White House door.’ He raised a finger. ‘We’ll start sending J. Edgar Hoover letters, from a Dr Susan Blake, with claims about the President being a time travelling alien.’

I smiled. ‘Cruel bastard. If she turns up they’ll throw her in the funny ward.’

‘First thing the President would do, would be to ask Hoover to check her out.’

‘We could just send her back - with a note.’

‘Good doctors are always useful, as you pressed. But check her kit carefully for things that she could impress Hoover with. I’ve asked the scientists to invent bug-sweeping kit to modern standards, and Big Paul will check the hotel in case she’s already dropped something small.’

‘If they wanted to interfere, why not just send back something clever, like a tactical nuke?’ I thought out loud.

‘The portal in Canada is run by the International Space Administration. They thought she was on our side!’

‘I suppose.’

‘Besides, if Gilchrist was seen to be favouring America, the Russians and Chinese would kick up.’

We left her alone for a few days, to work her magic, and she reported that she had adapted a synthetic nerve. The next day would be the big day. While she was operating on Jack, Big Paul scanned the hotel, finding nothing, her room also bug free. Some of the equipment was a bit odd, but not known to be definitely for sending or receiving. We figured she would bide her time.

She reported the nerve in place, attached, and that electro-stimulus moved Jack’s feet. She kept him sedated for two days, face down, then turned him over and sat him up. He wiggled his toes, but got an almighty erection.

‘That’s OK,’ she said. ‘A cross connection somewhere, which should sort itself out.’

‘If I try and kick a football, will I get an erection every time?’ Jack asked.

‘You could always keep a football in bed,’ she teased.

The next day he tried walking, but the urge to walk was followed by the strong urge to pee. That urge finally went on the fourth day; now Jack could hobble about without wanting the toilet. He still got erections at odd times, the nurses now used to that. A football appeared in the lounge, someone’s idea of a joke.

A week later he was walking normally, albeit with a nurse holding his arm. I, meanwhile, had taken Susan shopping a few times and handed over a pile of dollars for her to use, buying her meals at the best restaurants. I hadn’t tried anything romantic yet, but she did look cute in a one-piece bathing suit in the swimming pool, a very nice figure. I thanked the spymasters of the world; they knew how to pick a bit of skirt.

Jack started swimming twice a day, and walking around the hotel every hour; he was soon back to normal. In the lounge one day, he asked his nurse to stay with him.

‘You’re staying in Canada?’ she puzzled.

‘No, stay with me … wherever I go.’

‘Oh’, she blushed.

I kicked the football towards her. ‘And take that wherever you go.’

She gave me a look. Facing Jack, she said, ‘Is this a … formal offer?’

‘It will be upon our return. What do you say?’

‘I … say yes.’

‘I think a party is in order,’ I said.

Jimmy wandered in, and we broke the news. He took out a diamond, a large one, and handed at Jack. ‘For the lady in your life.’ She almost fainted. Jimmy added, ‘My wedding gift will be nice house for you both. Chelsea maybe.’

The nurse, a pleasant faced twenty-five year old, had made a good choice in suitors.

‘Why don’t you both honeymoon in Kenya,’ I suggested. ‘But get your good woman one of those inoculations first.’

‘Kenya?’ she gasped. ‘My head is still spinning from that aeroplane. I’d never been in one before and … what a luxury inside. And to fly all of the way here? My friends will never believe it when I get back.’

Jimmy faced Jack. ‘Plane will be ready when you are. Unless you want a train and a boat?’

‘No, plane is fine,’ Jack said. ‘Have some work to catch up on.’

The nurse said, ‘And fixing his back with just pressure points; that was marvellous what the lady doctor did. A twist and a turn and his disc was soon back in the right place.’

‘We were lucky,’ I said, knowing that Jack would display no scars. ‘No surgery needed.’

The gang threw a party that night, Sykes not a hundred percent on the marriage idea, but they would be in London for decades. Susan played the role and got into the spirit of things, a few questions about how she would help us in the future. Jimmy suggested that she would be most help in Africa, where she could help to train local surgeons with Doc Graham. I countered that by arguing that she should stay with the gang, since Hal or Hacker would bend a plane soon enough and may need emergency surgery. Jimmy could see the logic and asked her to stay, but to get a set of instruments from this day and age.

We faked British medical degrees, and she spent time reading the current medical journals so that she would fit in, and in the evenings we dined out often, not yet lovers. I was not going to push it. A room was made up in the factory and now everyone knew we had a British lady doctor. She stitched up fingers - she even re-attached one, and got things out of eyes that should not be in eyes. It was real work, and she said that she was enjoying it, although her twelve dollars a week seemed a bit low.

Winter, 1926

Winter 1926 came on with a few nasty storms, but our factory now offered its staff walkways with covered roofs so they could move from section to section. Bad weather would not hold us up, still with three shifts operating, and our ladies in the canteen were kept busy. Off duty, the men enjoyed the cinema and the bowling alley, most nights the places full of our staff. Well, ninety percent of the locals worked for us one way or another.

We weren’t getting much flying done, but production was good, the birds stockpiled and covered in tarpaulin. Since the planes had aluminium skins, we were not worried about a light covering of snow. When a good few days appeared the staff rushed around like crazy ants, the planes started up and taxied out, flown for an hour and then fuelled for a delivery flight somewhere. With a clear three days we would launch forty aircraft, all heading off in different directions, but mostly south.

Los Angeles to Hawaii, and points beyond, was one of our principal routes, seaplanes now offering trips to New Zealand and onwards to Australia, Singapore or Hong Kong. The day our first plane landed in the colony we had the predictable telegram from Po, and so flew down four aircraft for him start his own airline. But we were being sneaky. Other airlines, other than Po, wanted to start up, and with our planes. We told them that the aircraft had all been pre-ordered for years and … kindly fuck off. We were out to corner the market.

A version of our seaplane with wheels, retractable wheels, was now in production, and Jimmy had the first two used on the New York to Chicago run. We had set the standard, and toilets and food would be essential for anyone to compete with us. We also enjoyed dampeners around engine fittings and in the skin hollows, the vibrations reduced. Anyone trying another aircraft would hear and feel the difference.

Then the commercial espionage started. US manufacturers of planes, crap planes, approached some of our staff with cash offers. The staff reported the fact to us, proud of their aircraft. We handed them small cash bonuses, and sent Big Paul and his mates south. The various company bosses fell blind, or met with accidents in their own crappy planes, the odd office catching fire. One plane company tried to copy our designs, but how the hell could they copy molecular glue and bonded honeycombs? Our techniques were so far ahead that they would never catch up or understand them.

Still, they tried. We sent the lads down, and aircraft taking off from their airfield ploughed into the ground, or caught fire often, the company’s reputation shot down in flames. In Canada, we cornered the market, taking business away from De Havilland - for now; Jimmy had plans for them. Our seaplanes became lake planes, stopping in the Great Lakes and others. East and West Canada became closer, now just a plane ride away, the Canadian Government frequent fliers and subsidised by us.

Expanding east over the winter of 1926, we operated Toronto to London and New York to London. A weekly non-stop Quebec to Paris was very popular. Getting permission from the UK Government, which wasn’t hard, we organised flights from Biggin Hill airport to all points south; Cairo, Nairobi, West Africa, Baghdad, Palestine. The flights were packed, and booked months ahead. Shipping more Dash-7s to Biggin Hill, we began flights to Paris and Marseille, Belfast and Edinburgh, Oslo and Sweden. They could only take eight passengers, but were still economical – and profitable for us.

In the UK, we formed British Airways Ltd, pinching the name, and transferred existing aircraft to it. The UK government were pleased, a big Union Jack on the tail and wing. We were flying the flag. Heathrow was just a grass airstrip, yet to be brought up to speed, and Gatwick was a farmer’s yard.

Very few people now worked on the fighter, so Jimmy suspended it, the project mothballed, the pilots allowed to muck about in them. All effort was now focused on the seaplanes, the beasts taking up some seventy percent of our staff. Our scientists had helped with mass production techniques, and drawings turned into aluminium struts very quickly. Gluing helped save a great deal of time, although we suffered a death from inhalation, a young lad. The other glue users learnt their lesson.

Love lessons

Six weeks after joining us, Susan had had enough. Well, she hadn’t had any, and that seemed to be the problem. She knocked on my door one evening and kissed me. And that was that, we were an item; I was taking one for the team.

Out of her clothes she was gorgeous, the sex great. And I was an old man; I appreciated it more. She stayed in my room a few nights a week, till Jimmy gave me a nudge towards Spiral One. This all seemed familiar somehow, but I could not put my finger on why.

I bought the largest house, just after it was completed, and we moved in, a house warming party given. Down the hill lived our senior staff, Ted moving over from his old house. I had a view, a balcony, and an enclosed pool, chilly for nine tenths of the year. Still, it looked nice. I would sit in the lounge and look out over the inlet, our plane factory to the left, the tractors to the right, the hotel just about visible on a good day. I saw our planes take off and land, and had one of these new fangled telephones put in. It rang often, sometimes for the doctor of the house, some worker with a finger missing. Since we only slept four hours a night, and were half a mile from the factory, it was not a big issue. Still, I had a night doctor and a nurse hired for each factory. I was not about to have my breast-snuggle time interrupted.

Susan and I were not worried about her getting pregnant, she had a capsule under her skin that would prevent pregnancy till removed; modern technology. So when she told me that she was late we were both surprised. I suspected foul play and confronted Jimmy.

‘Susan is … late.’ I waited.

‘Often late, or just today?’

‘Late … maybe pregnant late.’

‘Oh. It worked then.’

‘What … worked?’

‘We had the scientists devise a neutralising agent to the birth control. Clever stuff, took a while. It’s in your beer and wine at the house.’

‘And … the reason for this intrusion into our lives?’ I mock complained.

‘You’re on a mission, and she’s a spy. Get back on the clock, numb nuts.’

‘You think … a baby will turn her?’

‘We can but hope that you melt her heart.’

‘She may want an abortion.’

‘Talk her around. And … think Shelly.’

‘A smart daughter or two?’ I puzzled.

‘She’s autistic, and you produce smart daughters. That means they should be very bright – and on the team. And, in years to come, placed where they can do most good. Now, tell me you don’t secretly long for another daughter.’

I looked away. ‘I wanted a son.’

‘No you didn’t, you wanted a dependent daughter, have done for a long, long time.’

‘You know me too well,’ I sighed.

‘I’ve known you for the better part of three hundred years.’

That evening Susan broached the issue, the issue of an abortion.

‘Abort my child and you’re off the team and on your own,’ I told her.

‘I didn’t say I wanted to, just … that it’s a shock. I had hoped for a family when I chose, and where I chose.’

‘It doesn’t work that way.’

‘No, obviously,’ she sighed. ‘And you don’t know me well enough to know if we’re suited for the long term.’

‘True, but being on a mission helps; we have a focus elsewhere. Besides, I trust to random luck. People who make informed choices often get them wrong.’

‘An almost … spiritual view on things.’

‘I’ve been around a lot longer than you, and been through more; I’ve learnt that the universe has a strange sense of humour. So unless you do something odd, I’d be happy to move forwards and assume that everything will be just fine. And, if you’re unhappy, you and the kid could go back through the portal.’

‘If they knew the child was yours, they’d never leave me alone.’

‘There is that. This house OK?’

‘This house … is beautiful, so is the land here. And the people are very friendly; it won’t be a burden living here.’

‘Never forget the mission we’re on. Someday, twenty-five years from now, our kid will start a job somewhere very important. Say … the US Congress.’

‘A future US President? The child would have to be born there.’

‘I didn’t say President; there are more powerful jobs. People always work around Presidents, and they’re just there for a few years. Your child may set the future direction of this planet, as say … President of the Congo.’

Her eyes widened, but she hid it.

We didn’t make love that night, the mood a bit off, but she picked out a room for the baby the next day. Progress, I suppose.

The flying Chinaman

Po came to visit aboard his customised seaplane, the inside now a home from home, seats removed to make room for two beds. It was Wang Po One, not quite Air Force One. And we laughed at length. He inspected the factories, the jealously evident; he wanted his own. Jimmy explained the years of research and training involved, and peed on Po’s ideas.

Po stayed at the hotel for a few nights, catching up, and met Susan, my other half taking a keen interest in what Po and Yuri were up to, and Han of course. We promised Po more planes - when they were ready, our man in Hong Kong out to conquer the passenger markets in the region. He had already fitted a fridge to his fleet, his passengers now afforded cold drinks.

Our man in Hong Kong did, however, bring some money for the cause, diamonds that he had not needed to sell; business was booming. Jimmy sent them down to New York to be sold slowly through our bank. With the extra money now sat there, Jimmy took on more engineers, these days the guys coming mostly from eastern Canada; all the good ones in the west were already working for us. We had refused to take on Americans for the obvious reason: someday they’d go work in the States for a rival.

Jeep production was increasing, tractors decreasing bit by bit. And our engineers – they drove them home weekends to “test” them, many to be seen around town. Two hundred had been shipped to Africa, fifty for Ngomo, fifty for Abdi, the rest for sale around Kenya – Rudd now to be seen tearing around in one, Dr Astor another. The Canadian Rifles now ran a fleet of a hundred, and the British Army in Kenya now used them. The next batch had been promised to the British Army, bound for Cairo and other parts of the distant empire. Uncle Sam had liked the jeeps and now bought steadily.

With Po gone from “the cold place” we returned to quotas, smart men taken off tractors and jeeps and placed on the planes, which we could not make fast enough. And if the staff were not busy enough already, Jimmy specified a four-engine sixty-seat version. It was simple enough: bigger wing, longer body, and more powerful engines. A team was dragged together to work on a prototype.

In the secret factory, the jet engine still blew apart, but it blew apart at greater and greater power output. They now had the jet engines mounted on a twelve tonne solid metal sled with sixteen wheels, springs attached to the wall behind it, an inlet air funnel and exhaust gas funnel made up. The engines powered up and pulled on the springs, the force measured before the thing blew apart, a few large holes in the roof patched up.

Fuel consumption was terrible, and parts melted together on a regular basis. They knew they needed a better alloy, and much time was spent on searching for it, helpful hints from the scientists coming where needed. The oil that the engine used also had to be something special. Still, they were making progress, in that the power output was ten times higher now before the engine blew apart.

They then hit upon the idea of bleed-air cooling the engine, and added a layer around the outside of engine. The front fan blew cold air over other parts, and the darn thing increased power again – before exploding. They created strong skirts around the inner layer, making holes for air to pass through to cool it, and got the pressure up so high it broke the springs, and did so without exploding. We were summoned.

Jimmy said, ‘Make two of them, place them in pods under the wings of a seaplane – grab one – then when the seaplane is at six thousand feet knock off two engines and switch these on. See what happens. Use the seaplane as a flying test-bed.’

A month later Hal took off in a seaplane codenamed X1, and avoided the factories and population centres. At altitude he knocked off two propeller engines, and powered up the jet engines, but well below their maximum throttle. The seaplane’s speed increased, and the engines carried the seaplane for an hour, the engineers in the back monitoring temperature, pressure and turbine speed.

Hal then knocked off the final two props, the plane now on jet power. On fifty percent power they were keeping the bird up. He increased to seventy percent power and picked up speed, not daring to push them any further. He landed on props, the jets shut down, and a party was arranged for the engineering teams. It was 1926, and we possessed a basic jet engine.

Jimmy told the engineers. ‘Don’t hurry, do it properly, get the power up and the fuel consumption down. Keep testing and pushing, and keep experimenting. And keep it secret!’

They all received a cash bonus. And Boeing in Seattle, they were thinking of a three-engine passenger biplane, cloth covered. We had taken their postal service contract, and they puzzled how we made such great planes.

My home life got into a routine, and I tried not to bring work home with me. Susan started to grow on me, not that there had been too much wrong with her in the first place, and I found that she was very bright – obviously, but also had a great sense of humour, and that she found everything about the 1920s to be fascinating. She always found “Main Street” humorous, the silent flicks to be great, and the town’s diner just fabulous.

‘It’s like going back in time,’ she’d joke.

The ladies clothes of the day were a bit odd, and the undergarments itched a little. There was no fast food yet, so we had to cook, a maid brought in after just a few days. The maid operated the dated stove, and left a cooked pie under brown paper. The lady made our evening meals at 6pm, leaving as we sat down to eat, back to clean the house around 2pm the next day.

We often stopped at the town’s diner for a cooked breakfast in the mornings, some of the day-shift workers having the same idea. I liked the beef stew pie that the diner made, and had some delivered to the house most every day. I paid the deliveryman over the odds, and we had invented the lazy takeaway.

That gave me an idea, and some of the worst elements of 21^st century life were about to descend on the town. I gave the diner’s owner some money and he built a new shop, a pizza parlour. It would just make pizza. Hungry workers, the bachelors, flocked to it every night. The outlet also offered takeaways in boxes, so I could pick one up on the way home. When I introduced a subsidised delivery service it was an instant hit, bachelors at the boarding houses ordering pizza on the phone.

On a trip to Vancouver I persuaded a Chinese restaurant owner to open a restaurant in our town, and offered a great lease rate for a new building. We would end up with a Chinese take-away.

During the time I spent with Susan I was secretly very happy, although I’d moan at Jimmy from time to time. Helen and I had broken up twenty years before I had gone back to fight The Brotherhood, and those twelve years fighting had been hell – no cold beer, or women. So Susan was a catch, a real catch, and I was happy to be with her, very happy. I’d just never tell Jimmy that. The sex was great, and grew to be fantastic, the good doctor a bit shy to start, experimental later on. Life was good.

Plastic and gold

The aircraft factory had been experimenting with plastics for many years, simple moulds used for a few aircraft parts. They had managed to make the plastic stronger, whilst a little less likely to burn and melt. The scientists had also made a type of Perspex. After demonstrating its benefits – it didn’t shatter like glass – we started to use Perspex for aircraft windows. It was also lighter, and cheap to make.

Moving on from that, Jimmy opened a small factory in Vancouver and looked at plastic products, including plastic bags, the bane of the 21^st century. Our staff soon had plastic bags given to them to try, housewives to be seen carrying things around in them. I gave the Chinese restaurant bags for my take-away, then issued hundreds of them to local stores for free, informing them where the bags could be bought from.

We started making large plastic sheets, selling them at the local hardware store. People put them over cars, barbeque sets, all sorts. We put them over aircraft sat in the snow. The lumber mill boss - the guy who liked to parachute, bought huge sheets of blue plastic to cover sawn timber. I sent free samples to every lumberyard, receiving a good response. I then sent them to every hardware store in the province, as well as any carpenters. Builders soon wanted them to cover part-finished houses.

That led us to open a shop in Seattle that sold plastic products, kitchen bowls snapped up by housewives. When I had plastic three-litre containers delivered to the local milk producer he almost kissed me. The screw tops were just about brilliant in his estimation; it would preserve the milk. We sent samples to every dairy outlet in California. And we bought our oil locally, since shipping it would be costly.

Susan asked delicate questions about interference in the time line, to which I pointed at the Second World War, the Cold War and The Brotherhood – none of which had certain outcomes on this world. And … we didn’t care about the time line. I told her about some of the future leaders that Jimmy had assassinated and she was shocked. I didn’t tell her about the Americans we had killed, the grandfathers of certain future leaders.

Then, in the spring of 1926, with Susan now quite big, a telegram arrived from Rudd. ‘Mine operating, smelting, first product shipped out.’

It was great news; the first bar of gold had been shipped out of Kenya to Europe. And our buyer was none other than the Bank of England itself. The bank would weigh the gold, check purity, work out a price and take twenty-percent for itself. The balance would be given as credit, the detail of that credit transferred to the national bank of Canada, who would pass on the credit to our local bank.

With that first credit, not much in real terms – but still good for 1926, I was dispatched to Seattle to buy land adjacent to the Boeing field; if they wanted to expand in the future they’d have to talk to us. I flew back in one of our own a Dash-7s, picking up a Chinese on the way home from Main Street; it was a Thursday. We sat and stuffed our faces, no TV for another thirty years or so, then read the papers as usual, or listened to some contemporary music – which was growing on us. We even learned the latest dances and laughed like teenagers at each other’s movements.

We’d often drive down to the hotel of an evening, always a party atmosphere there, and would chat to the gang. I bowled with the lads once a week regularly, now part of a team. Susan still worked at the factory, trying to keep busy, and there were always fingers that needed stitches, flecks in eyes. For entertainment, I borrowed a secret laptop from a scientist and we hid it in a locked safe. With no one around, curtains closed, we’d huddle up and watch an old movie. Well, a move from the forties, fifties or sixties – from our world, sometimes a nature documentary.

Then one day, a burst of machinegun fire and screeched tyres woke up the town, bootleggers being chased by local police. It was a shock, a shock that these arseholes were so close to my home. Everyone was talking about it the next day, our proximity to Seattle the problem. Jimmy ordered a war council, members of the Canadian Rifles soon deployed to the border with the approval of the Province’s Governor. We let it be known that a dead bootlegger would earn a soldier a good bonus, not that they needed the encouragement. The task was treated like a live-firing training exercise, squads of Rifles sneaking about at night. Where they found obvious crossing points, recently used, they’d set a trap and wait for days or weeks. Bootlegging dropped off sharply in our region.

Not content with that, Jimmy deployed the Rifles along a six hundred mile stretch of border, the Canadian Government fine with the move, local liquor manufacturers not so happy about it. A few disappeared. We were determined that our soldiers would not just sit in barracks, they would train hard – and with real bullets. They drove our jeeps across rough terrain, and I supplemented the patrols with two Cessnas that flew along the border with three keen spotters aboard. Seattle went dry.

The summer of 1926 was a good one, Susan and I walking and sailing often, despite her bump. She was concerned about the birth, wishing for a “C” Section, so I informed her that Doc Graham would be here for month seven onwards – Jimmy thinking ahead. Doc Graham had been practising “C” Sections in Kenya for years, and Susan was reassured. She knew that the child would probably come to term during month seven, her friends had, friends that were autistic. Gifted. I’d been through it all before and reassured her, but for a doctor she was nervous. But this was about her, and not some nameless patient in a surgery. We found a café on the inlet that we liked, and often ate there with a bodyguard nearby, although we felt very safe here in Canada, a little less safe of late with bootleggers around.

I popped in to see the developing jet engine often, making comments. One day I said, ‘How about bigger but shorter? It’s the volume of air pushed through that matters more than the speed of it.’

They were intrigued, and I was more interested in commercial jets as opposed to jet fighters. One day, just to be mischievous, I asked them to experiment with injecting fuel into the hot gas just beyond the burn chambers. A few days later they tried it, the engine test-bed breaking its moorings. Re-heat had just been invented.

‘It wastes a massive amount of fuel,’ they said.

‘Yeah, but maybe the pilot in a dog fight wants a quick burst of speed, just a few seconds to get out of trouble.’

They liked the idea, but Jimmy beat me around the head with a rolled up newspaper. It was too soon; I had just jumped ahead a few years. Jimmy then assembled the engineers.

‘Guys, how much jet power would be needed to push the prop fighter we made?’

‘A lot less than this engine produces!’ was the firm answer.

‘OK, make a small engine, with power for that fighter, then … rip out the propeller engine, redesign it and stick one in. He made a sketch on a blackboard and asked for opinions, the sketched plane looking a little bit like an early Russian MIG. He assigned extra engineers to it, to the funny plane with no propellers.

Taking a seaplane ride the next day – a seaplane with wheels, several of the gang journeyed out with me to the secret airfield in the interior, and we landed on a long concrete runway, a very long concrete runway; there was no end to it. Peering through the windows with keen interest, we taxied towards a control tower, the edges of the taxiway moss and peat, not grass. I knew that a platoon of Rifles was now in attendance, keeping strangers away. Well, strangers that could walk this far would be a welcome sight after nothing but moose and bears.

The area around the secret base was suitably flat, and we had passed over a large lake as we approached and descended. Now I stood on the tarmac and peered around, but could see nothing on the horizon apart from moss and heather. A hangar had already been built, another two under construction, one a real monster. Several brick buildings had been constructed behind the control tower, and it was all way ahead of itself.

Jimmy explained, ‘The fighter with a jet engine will come here to be tested, far from prying eyes.’

We inspected the tower - the building ready for some action, the empty offices, even the lonely hangars and empty tool sheds. Some of the supplies came in by plane, the Rifles using the airfield as a training ground, live fire ranges nearby. I could see jeeps with 105mm attached. Out here they could blast away to their heart’s content; no one to see, no one to hear. Seeing a sign for a tunnel, I asked about it.

Jimmy explained, ‘There are tunnels connecting all the main facilities; if there’s six feet of snow up top, people can still move around. There are tunnels to the cabins as well. They dug down six feet, put in concrete, put a roof over and cover it with dirt and moss.’

The soldiers showed us their latest mortar tubes, and then tried to hit a distant moose with shells. It would be cooked later. A single storey barrack room offered windows with two layers - to keep the men warm in the dead of winter; this was the Mountain and Arctic Warfare Cadre’s home from home, their jeeps painted white, their half-tracks painted white. White snow smocks hung from the walls, the soldiers weapons painted white with black stripes. All they needed was a little snow.

‘Any bootleggers up here?’ I asked their C.O.

‘If there were we’d welcome them in and pat them on the back. It’s a hundred miles to the nearest track, another hundred to the nearest road, and a hell of a way to the nearest whore house!’

‘How long do you spend up here?’

‘Never more than eight weeks. We’re flying in and out now, even in the winter, but we do have fun clearing the damn runway. Still, it keeps the men fit and active. Sometimes they just drop supplies by parachute!’

‘Why’d you have a huge runway way out here?’ they asked.

‘New aeroplanes will be tested here, far from prying eyes,’ Jimmy explained.

I said, ‘We don’t want people to copy them till we’re ready. If they do we make less money, and you guys … are out of a job.’

‘No one up here too see them!’

‘But plenty of people around Vancouver,’ I pointed out.

We made our inspection of the airfield, Jimmy happy with it, and flew off southwest, back towards home. And it now felt like home; I had no wish to be anywhere else. The seaplane landed on the inlet, undercarriage up, and let us off next to the hotel, a boat coming out for us. Susan met us, a big hug for me. Well, as much of a hug as we could manage in her condition.

Jimmy dispatched extra builders to the remote airfield, wanting it completed this summer and ready for next spring. Aircraft engineers were sent out to the remote airfield to create stores ready, and to check the facilities. The airfield would not be used to manufacturer aircraft, but they would be assembled and tested there, so lathes and welding sets were dispatched, aluminium glue and av-gas. The real work would begin in earnest next spring.

Radios

We had been working on radios for many years, each of our aircraft now fitted with one. They were getting smaller, sound quality was improving, and they broke less often. Now we ventured into making simple radios for housewives to tune into the local radio station. At the moment there were two stations in Vancouver, and that was about it. We started our own station in the town, each worker given a free radio set. The radios appeared in the diner, in shops, and soon everyone had a radio on in the background.

We played contemporary music, but interrupted with a five-minute news programme every four hours. Radios started to sell to those who didn’t work for us, the radios looking like large mantelpiece clocks with wooden surrounds. Inside, they were more advanced than the other sets available in the period.

Radio shops opened in Vancouver and Seattle, and trade was good, the sets soon shipped all around Canada. Our pilots were told to take a few on each trip, and to just give them out free; word of mouth advertising would do the rest. We had gone viral.

Four hundred sets were shipped out to Kenya, two hundred to Hong Kong, and a thousand were batched up for the UK - where they liked to sit in of a cold winter night and listen. With Jimmy asking for ten thousand sets this year alone, additional staff were hired at a facility in Vancouver, hundreds of them. In total, we now employed directly some eleven thousand people, making us the largest employer in the province.

Our fridges were doing well, and now benefited from glued-aluminium casing and plastic insides. I figured that people trying to copy us would have a hard time of it. The fridges were sent south by train to Los Angeles or Florida, where our sales staff would place them in hotels, sale or return, for a month. No one wanted to give them back at the end of the month. Lease terms were agreed, our sales staff enjoying a hundred percent success. That company, Columbia Frozen Fridges, now made a good profit. For the time period, it was a fantastic profit.

‘How about … cars?’ I asked Jimmy one day as we sat in the hotel diner.

‘We’d put US workers out of jobs.’

‘This is all on a small scale at the moment,’ I countered. ‘So ... maybe top-end cars, glued-aluminium and plastic.’

‘If you want to set up a small factory, then by all means. We could do with some decent cars for the gang.’

I went and asked a question of the engineers. ‘Could an aircraft engine run a car?’

‘It could … if you was figuring on driving at a hundred miles an hour!’

‘Funny you should say that…’

I left some very amused engineers thinking about racing cars, and bought a piece of land towards Vancouver, an old mill. I sent in the builders to do it up, and to erect a few large sheds. A fence was thrown up, guards hired, a team of twenty engineers allocated to me. They ordered the equipment they would need, hiring people from the city with the relevant skills – and there were not too many of those left.

They started with a basic jeep, taking it apart, and then considered a stronger chassis. The bodywork would be bonded aluminium honeycomb - great for safety if you hit something, and the windows would be Perspex.

A few of the scientists seemed a little jealous, and dropped hints. I allowed their input, many people interested in tinkering with the new car design on the weekends.

Babies

August saw two arrivals; Doc Graham, and a baby girl a week later. Everyone had a look, gifts bought, silly noises made. Susan recovered in a day or so, and now glowed with the baby in her arms. Jimmy may have been right; a kid can change your perspective.

We employed the maid full time, and she would work 8am to 6pm every day, another lady coming in at weekends. Both of the ladies were married to engineers, so security was less of a risk. Ted’s wife popped in often and would baby-sit for us, Ted’s eight year old daughter great with baby Mary, a name that Susan liked. I had used up quite a few girls names, and didn’t argue.

Young Mary was a good sleeper, but Susan insisted that all the children of “gifted” parents had the blood. I spent hours just sat holding her, or just sat watching her sleep. Life was good.

But then one day a drive-by shooting occurred, a car of gangsters opening-up on our hotel in Vancouver. We could not decide if they were after someone inside, or after us. The bootleggers had been knocked back, and we figured that they knew we funded the Rifles, everyone around here did. A war council was convened. Since we could not be sure who it was, we had a word with the Seattle police and put together a list of likely suspects, where they lived or hung out.

Big Paul put a team together: Rifles SAS, armed with AK47s, the men offered good bonuses. A few days later they flew across the border in our own planes, landing on a road at night and soon creeping through a forest to an estate owned by a gangster. They left no one alive, and blew the house to pieces with a timed charge, soon on the plane home.

Next they dressed in suits and flew in, pistols hidden as they snuck around the back of a gin joint after hours. Grenades went in first, followed by the soldiers, everyone inside shot dead, timed explosives left behind. The building collapsed in on the bodies, our ghosts soon back across the border.

The next gangster on our list was now being cautious, so our people occupied a hill above his house, and waited with fifty-calibre sniper Rifles. As he drove home in convoy they hit his car engine, and then blew his head clean off his shoulders. RPGs rained down, the cars blown to pieces, no witnesses left to talk. Al Capone would have been proud of us.

Next came an old mill in the countryside where bootleg booze was being stored; the number of armed men around it gave it away. RPGs streaked into the mill, blowing it to bits, the hard booze burning. AK47 sniper variants then picked off the guards, plus any stragglers. So much explosive was placed in the mill that a hole some thirty yards across was left behind, people hearing the blast ten miles away.

One particular gangster on our list, now running scared, remained on the top floor of a hotel. A fifty calibre round hit him from six hundred yards away when he peered out of the window one morning, a hole in the man’s chest big enough to put your arm through. Several of his lieutenants were picked off as they left the rear of the hotel, the remainder fleeing.

After four weeks of hard work, or “fun and games” as Big Paul put it, there was no one left worth shooting, and the bootlegging trade around our region died, the numbers of soldiers on the border reduced. The local action, however, led to the head of the Seattle Police coming to see us. We welcomed him into the hotel, making him a coffee.

‘Would I be right in assuming that you fellas had a hand in … cleaning up my city?’

‘No,’ Jimmy said, holding a fixed stare.

The man took a moment. ‘Well … the fellas that did the damage, they move like ghosts. We don’t have any descriptions of people or cars.’

‘Is the city quieter now?’ I asked.

‘Much, but someone will come around and replace the others; they always do.’

Jimmy handed the man a modest diamond. ‘When they do … let us know, because we take an interest in these things. We reward those who help us, and those that let us down go for a plane ride … being pushed out at a very great height.’

The police chief pocketed the diamond. ‘I think we understand each other. But one of the men who died, his boss is in San Francisco, and he won’t take it lying down.’

‘Do you have his details?’ I asked.

The police chief wrote them down. ‘He has three hundred men, they say, an estate out of town with sixty men around it.’

‘Then let’s hope he chokes on a bread role,’ I said.

With the police chief gone, we gave Big Paul the details. ‘It smells of a trap,’ Jimmy told him. ‘This cop might be on the take from our friend. Be very careful, recon the place first.’

Whilst I was snug and warm in with the baby, Big Paul flew over an estate outside of San Francisco. He could see the guards below through his binoculars. Figuring he’d save some time, he flew back over a day later at 5am, dropping a bundle with a parachute. It floated down, those guards awake at this hour puzzling it. It landed in the courtyard, and they had a peek. The blast was so great that people in the city heard it. Scratch one more gangster.

The blast made the papers, rival gangsters blamed. No one had seen our plane, and our plane had flown in a roundabout way to get there and to get back. Still, Jimmy was concerned. He had a fence thrown up around my estate, a guard put on with a barrier. The residents didn’t mind, it gave them added peace of mind. The hotel now offered two armed men in roof windows, a man on the front door with a hidden pistol.

With the cooperation of the local authorities – who loved us, we put a barrier and guards on a bridge over a stream, the only way to reach us from Vancouver. Vehicles were stopped, directions given, smiles and waves at locals. People leaving were not inconvenienced, and trucks were typically let straight through. A car with four men in would be stopped, day or night.

A week after the barrier had been raised, one particular group of new bootleggers simply took a wrong turn. They panicked when they saw the local police, and the soldiers, and tried to speed around the barrier, clipping it, their car racked by over a hundred rounds. Fortunately, the incident had occurred late at night.

I made sure that a picture of the men’s car made it to the local newspaper, as well as down in Seattle. It looked like a Swiss cheese, the message a loud one.

Gold production in the Congo was now at a level that made me interested, the gold bars smuggled out. The Belgians were regular users of the trains, and they had ventured down the jungle road towards our jungle mine – a few dead ends inspected – their people reporting that the road led to Zambia. They had not found the mine, or its smelting plant. And as for the gold bars, they were driven out by the Rifles, or more typically flown out aboard a Dash-7, a dirt strip having been cut into the jungle.

A second dirt strip had been cut into the jungle near our decoy mine across the Zambian border, and flights landed there first. Planes heading into the Congo were simply heading there – to anyone who asked. And how could the Belgians possibly know about the gold?

With extraction levels now good, Ngomo organised a rebellion around Goma, Belgians killed and fleeing. Their soldiers moved in, and were massacred, few bodies found. Belgians, and Europeans, soon feared the Congo, few venturing there.

Our train track then took a sharp left turn and ventured towards existing track near Zimbabwe, called Rhodesia at the moment. There it would join up, and people could take an oddly circular route from Salisbury, the colonial capital of Rhodesia, to Kenya. Thinking of tin and copper, Jimmy sought permission from the Belgians to mine in the Congo, and we ordered up mines where we knew deposits would be found, the Mombasa Steam Company heavily involved, and soon to be involved in bringing ore back to Kenya. In addition to that new work, Steffan began to cut a line through Zambia and towards the Angolan coast, a lengthy project. At least the going would be easier than the Congo.

With the first two seaplanes dispatched to Africa, to internal Africa, we offered a service from Mombasa to Nairobi and onwards to Lake Victoria or down to Lake Tanganyika and Kigoma town. The flights were packed, and preferable to an overland route, many diplomats on each flight.

Our Dash-7s ventured further and further into the interior, kept busy in Egypt and North Africa by the British Empire’s Diplomatic Corp. Sykes and Jack flew in the aircraft often, Jack’s dear lady wife now pregnant. He must have kept a football in the bedroom.

Just a month after starting my new car project, they had cobbled together a strange looking vehicle, a real beast of a motor; it was all engine. It was larger than the typical car from my era, its bodywork bonded honeycomb – and crash resistant. The seat offered a high back, and an aircraft pilot’s harness.

They had been warned, on pain of death, not to drive it on the roads without my approval. Now it was ready, and I rushed down. Sitting in it, the engineers jealous as hell, I strapped in and started her up, a hell of a noise created. Revving her shook nearby windows. I selected first gear and eased back off the clutch, a little gas and off I went, onto the road and into second. I tried the gas pedal, and was pinned back into the seat, smiling like an idiot.

At the hotel I stopped and revved it, the gang peering out of windows and then rushing down, all jealous as hell.

‘Where’s the baby seat?’ Jimmy dryly asked.

Mac squeezed in beside me and we took off, out through the barrier and to the highway, what it was. I opened her up, nought to sixty in four seconds. Well, a turbo-charged aircraft engine will do that for your ride. We passed a local police car on the side of the road, and he tried to follow. Turning around at a roadside diner, we headed back, halting next to the police car as it slowed.

‘Mister Paul,’ the officer called. ‘Should have known. She’s a beauty.’

‘No good trying to chase me, she does more than a hundred.’

‘A hundred? Jeez.’

I floored it and sped away. At the hotel I let Jimmy have a go, Hal sitting with him. Susan was waiting, her arms folded.

‘I didn’t go very fast,’ I told her, being stared at. ‘Honest.’ Mac’s laughter was not helping, and she gave me grief – all day. I pencilled the design for a family car, and told her that this was just a one-off.

In the weeks that followed, the engineers made a start on a more practical car. The turbo-charger was removed, and inhibitors fixed, maximum speed sixty-five. Plus a baby seat. I left the sports car to anyone who wanted to drive it, and allowed the engineers to make more in their spare time for races down in the States. That was their hobby, their real work to make family cars, safe family cars. Albeit damned powerful and fast family cars for the period.

Dropping into the hotel one evening, Jimmy said to me, ‘We should give Abdi more to do, or he’ll find something to do – something we may not like.’

‘We could send him money to build up Mogadishu,’ I suggested.

Jimmy nodded. ‘To make it a civilised city, and to keep him busy.’

Rudd sent Abdi hundreds of fridges, many more jeeps – earmarked for private use and for sale, and we asked Abdi to build hotels and facilities with money credited by the Bank of England through the British Governor in Mogadishu. The train line to Baardheere would now be extended down to Mogadishu, and all of the way up to the Red Sea. Abdi was placed in charge of the rail project, working with Steffan. We added a seaplane to the Mombasa service and it flew to Mogadishu and back twice a week, once a week up to Cairo and back.

We also asked Abdi to develop the local banana trade, and to open a few mines in the locations we gave him. The Somali industrial machine had been awoken, and may even someday develop a GDP to rival … well, a very small and poor country. Still, we gave him focus and kept him busy.

FBI

That winter, Mac and Handy developed ground attack rockets for the fighter, unguided, and the scientists helped to develop warheads that made a big bang, others that exploded below ground and made a very large hole in someone’s neatly laid grass airstrip. The fighters were dusted off, and when the weather allowed they took off and blew holes in hillsides, the local wildlife disturbed.

Then we received a visit from a senior FBI manager, the guy just turning up at the hotel one day. I was called down to the hotel, and met the man and his assistant in a quiet corner of the downstairs bar with Jimmy, drinks arranged.

‘How can we help you gentlemen?’ Jimmy began.

‘We’ve been piecing together the deaths of well-known gangsters in Seattle in the past six months, and to tell you the truth – we’re kinda baffled. But we have pieced together a few things. Some of these gangsters were put in the ground with half-inch bullets, rare bullets, but used by the Canadian Rifles. We found odd shell casings as well, again used by the Rifles Regiment, and I understand that these soldiers all learn to handle explosives real well.’

‘What does that have to do with us?’ I asked.

‘You gentlemen are known to have founded the regiment for work in Africa, and these soldiers are policing the border around here – rumoured to have put a few bootleggers in the ground.’

‘Does the demise of these bootleggers cause you any lost sleep?’ Jimmy asked.

‘Not really, but large explosions on US soil attract our interest.’

‘The Canadian Rifles,’ Jimmy began, ‘are under the direct control of the Canadian Army and Government. If you were to accuse them of anything, you’d have to go through government channels.’

The man eased back. ‘Which would take some time … and get me nowhere.’

‘Do you have a question?’ Jimmy pressed.

‘If someone threatened you guys, would you consider pursuing them south of the border?’

‘If someone threatened us, I’d take a million dollars from the bank … and hunt them down like dogs, wherever they where in the world,’ Jimmy carefully stated.

‘And such money would cause tight lips, as well as hire some determined people,’ the FBI manager stated.

‘I should hope so … for that kind of money,’ Jimmy told him.

‘And if there was a fugitive hiding out up here that I wanted…?’

‘I would do everything in my power to assist you.’

‘And if we wanted to intercept bootleggers further east?’ he risked.

‘Again, as good citizens we’d do all we could to assist, affording you some spectacular successes; people caught in the act, a reporter with a camera to hand.’

The FBI manager thumbed towards his buddy. ‘George here works out of the Seattle office. I’d like him to … be a go-between.’

‘Fine,’ Jimmy said. ‘Send us a list of people you’re after, photographs if you have them, and let us know which parts of the border you’re interested in.’

‘Great lakes and east,’ came straight back.

‘Then I think we could move a few soldiers around,’ Jimmy said with a false smile. ‘When they find a bootlegger camp they’ll let you know, and let you know when the convoys are heading to the border. Your success rate should … be worthy of praise from Washington.’

‘Sounds good, but what do you guys get out of it?’

‘A friend to call upon in the years to come, should we have a problem south of the border.’

The man made a face, then stood. We followed him up.

‘Paul, why don’t you show these gentlemen your sports car.’

I led the men out, and down the road. When the engine started they jumped backwards. With the FBI manager sat beside me, I tore down the road and around the town, the wind his hair. ‘She’ll do over a hundred!’ I shouted as we went.

‘A hundred! God damn!’

With the FBI gone, I went and found Jimmy. ‘Is this going to be a problem?’ I asked. ‘Them knowing about us?’

‘They’re not stupid. But if we help that guy to climb the ladder he’ll help us in the future, and his agency gets the credit. Besides, it was the angle I was looking for to meet their power brokers.’

We called Big Paul. Jimmy told him, ‘Have the Rifles deployed around the Great Lakes, hunting down bootlegger distilleries and warehouses. They don’t go in, they report locations and movements, no shooting. And a few teams near Toronto. Take a few off the border here, and keep them busy.’

‘How many men are there now?’ I asked Big Paul.

‘About two hundred in the SAS, about one hundred and fifty in the SBS, five hundred airborne, forty in the Mountain unit, and in total … around two thousand.’

‘They all get rotations to Africa?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, about four hundred over there at any one time.’

Jimmy said, ‘Go deploy them, but make sure that they’re camouflaged, stealthy, and quiet. This is eyes on - only shooting if discovered. When convoys of trucks head to the border I want the detail sent to the FBI in Seattle, George Banner the guy’s called. Set it up.’

When that guy, George Banner, returned to us a week later, he brought a large file with him, mugshots and all. And what a handsome bunch they were. Three Finger Mo, Slasher Jack, Hatchet Mick; these gangster fellas liked their colourful labels. But then I said something without Jimmy’s knowledge; he wasn’t around at the time.

‘George, our soldiers are very well trained, and our instructors have years of warfare under their belts around Africa and other places. If you sent a group of … say fifty men, we could teach them how to get in and out quietly, and how to fight.’

He eased back, his grey matter firing up. ‘A special unit … for catching the bootleggers in woods. Hmmm. I’ll send in a report.’

I didn’t think any more about it, handing the file to Big Paul, who laughed at the mugshots and names, most of these handsome chaps sporting broken noses. Our guys got to work, and tip-offs started to flow, bootleggers caught with their trousers down. Well, after drinking all that beer they needed a pee at the roadside. The FBI’s Chicago branch started to get a name for itself over the winter, our guys wrapped up like snowmen and hidden in snowdrifts.

But then George came back, well wrapped up himself. ‘We liked your idea,’ he told me and Jimmy.

‘What idea?’ Jimmy asked.

‘About you training a small group of our men.’

Jimmy looked to me.

‘My idea, I suggested a kind of … counter-bootlegging team for the border.’

‘Ah,’ Jimmy let out. He took a moment, then faced George. ‘It would give you all the credit yourselves.’

‘We can have fifty men here April 1^st.’

‘We’ll be ready,’ Jimmy told him.

With George gone, Jimmy called a war council. ‘Big Paul, Mac, create a hostage rescue group immediately. Give them the scenario of … a rich industrialist kidnapped in Africa or somewhere. Close quarter battle, stun grenades, knock out gas, peephole lenses, the works. Then you’re going to create a Guest Training Facility, separate barracks and canteen. Come 1^st April, the FBI will be sending fifty men to us. They’ll be trained to sneak about the border and … do what our lads are doing, only on their side.

‘I want them injected, on the pretext of … bugs in the Canadian swamps, worked up and never given a moments rest. We should have them for six weeks or so, and I want them parachuting, sniping, sneaking about. They don’t need platoon tactics, mortars, 105mm. They need pistols, grenades, close quarter battle and house storming, spy work, cold weather work - and jeep driving, since they’ll be in the mud and the shit. Canoes - yes, swimming, and hand-to-hand fighting and silent killing.

‘When they leave us, I want combats issued, snow smocks, and one of our 9mm pistols with plenty of ammo each. Give them a few fifty cals, but no AK47s yet. And invite them back in a year for a refresher. Oh, and give them all some basic Cessna flying lessons, because when they leave they can take four with them for recon.’

‘Fucking ‘ell, boss,’ Mac let out. ‘Being very generous.’

‘Yes, we are,’ Jimmy emphasised. ‘Because they’re the FBI, part of the American Government.’

‘Ah…’ I let out.

‘You have till April,’ Jimmy told them. ‘Go make some plans.’

I thought I’d be sneaky, and sent Timkins a telegram: American FBI having commando training from us.’

A formal request appeared a week later, from the Foreign Office, asking if two hundred British NCOs could attend airborne school, a one year assignment.’

Jimmy read the telegram, and ordered extra barracks built. His reply to Timkins was to have the men here by May 1^st. Second six months in Africa, then home.

‘I could have some input to the training,’ I suggested. ‘I did spend twelve fucking years fighting!’

‘You can have … as much input as you like, just don’t step on Big Paul’s toes.’

Back at the house, I felt that I should give Susan more to do. She looked bored. ‘Honey, could you help with a project?’

‘Sure. What is it?’

‘We need to have decent medical kits made up for the soldiers, something better than the crap they use now. Could you source supplies from far and wide, have the scientists make some stuff from steel and plastic?’

‘Oh, well … yes, no problem. I’ll start planning a basic kit, field dressings, and then a larger kit for HQ triage tents. They’d need tourniquets, haemostats … needle kits.’

‘Our instructors can then teach combat first aid. But could you teach some of their soldiers to be dedicated medics? Hire a few nurses and create a MASH unit?’

‘Does the Canadian Army have nurses?’

‘Well, they’re bound to. I’ll find out and grab some. At the moment the lads go to the Vancouver hospital if they’re hurt, so I’ll hire a base doctor who doesn’t mind roughing it.’

‘Those medics will notice the recovery rates.’

‘The soldiers have quarter blood; it leaves small scars.’

‘Oh, OK. I’ll make a start.’

‘And then, babes, a similar kit for aircraft pilots, since they may go down in far off places. And we’ll need a course for the pilots and waitresses.’

‘Are you trying to find things for me to do?’ she teased.

‘Yes, so get on it, slack draws.’

Jimmy was pleased with the first aid kits, especially for pilots. Our pilots would now have two days of courses when they rotated in and out, kits taken with them from now on, even in Cessnas. And our military first aid packs came in green watertight pouches in three differing sizes. Every soldier now carried a small pack of field dressings, a tourniquet, and needles for stitching. Medics had a larger bag, other bags left in jeeps and half-tracks.

And we started a MASH unit, taking on board a doctor with some surgical experience, plus four nurses. We bought them all the latest kit, including large green tents that we had MASH written on.

Flying bedstead

April 1^st came around, and fifty FBI guys turned up with suitcases, most of the guys aged under thirty. I welcomed them at the barracks set aside for them.

‘Guys, welcome to the Canadian Rifles. You are here … to learn how these soldiers do what they do … so well. These soldiers and their instructors have spent years in Africa fighting in wars, and have each killed hundreds of people, some hand to hand or with a knife. They’re a very tough bunch, and they all run twenty miles before breakfast.

‘You’ll be pushed hard, fed well, and taught all day. When you close your eyes you’ll be thankful that no one is shouting at you, and that you can rest your poor weary bones. When you leave here you’ll stare death in the face … and laugh. Now, you’ll be inoculated today for a few germs you’ll find in the Canadian swamps. That injection will make you sick for a day or two, so we won’t be pushing you that hard till Monday. Oh, and you will, however, all learn how to parachute during the course.’

‘Parachute?’ they queried.

‘Yes, from a plane; it’s required training. You’ll learn how to fire all of the world’s weapons, how to fight hand to hand, how to make bombs, and how to shoot someone at a thousand yards.’

‘A thousand yards?’

I asked for a fifty calibre with lens.

‘Jeez,’ they let out. ‘That for giants?’

‘That … will kill a man at a thousand yards or more. You’ll spend a lot of time on the ranges, your daily ammunition allowance being around five hundred rounds per man. We’ll also be teaching you how to fly, and when you leave you’ll be given four aircraft to take with you.’

That stunned them.

‘Now, get the injection, get some food, your uniforms, and be tough; we don’t like slackers here.’

Big Paul and Mac lifted AK47s from behind the men and fired bursts into the air. The men dived down.

‘Get up!’ we roared. ‘What are you, afraid of dying? To the medical centre, on the double!’

Back at the hotel, I said to Jimmy, ‘We need a married quarters.’

He nodded absently. ‘Build one.’

‘Some of our Canadian lads are coming up for three years, promoted to Corporals and Sergeants, twelve to officers.’

‘We had more Indians than chiefs to start with, a better balance now. And some of the originals were already due a promotion. Still, it takes time to train men, and experience can’t be rushed.’

‘Some of them look just like our old Rifles,’ I mentioned.

‘A few years of hard training will do that. And none have left us. Oh, have a look at the new bird.’

I drove down the next day, to the secret facility. There she sat, silver and gleaming, and looking a bit like an early MIG. I peered into the intake, seeing the fans. When the engineers approached, I asked, ‘Is the frame strong enough?’

‘We think so; we’ve strengthened a few places and insulated the engine from the frame.’

‘If it flies fast, the force on the wings and tail will be much greater,’ I pointed out.

‘There’s a new front spar in each, an alloy.’

‘When will it be ready?’

‘A few days, a few more tests. But there’s not much to test, because we did all the work on the original fighter. We’ve fired her up and run the engine for hours without a problem.’

‘Let me know when you’re ready.’

Four days later they bolted the plane atop a seabird, people puzzling the odd piggyback arrangement, and flew the jet up to our secret base. We followed two days later, noticing the jet on the apron as we landed. We had a nose around it before they fired her up, Hal in the pilot’s seat. When he waved, they ran over and pulled out a plug, closing a hatch, a basic electric engine starting the turbines. We headed over to the tower, Hal’s radio now set on transmit.

‘Internal power OK,’ crackled from a speaker. ‘Hydraulics OK, control surfaces … fine. Brakes off … power up … moving … picking up speed … on taxiway … powering up a little more … a little bounce in the nose … temperatures OK … on runway – no moose today! OK … lined up … flaps twenty … power at fifty percent … rolling … twenty … thirty … forty … fifty … sixty … seventy … eighty … ninety – she wants to lift … power down … forty, end of runway … turning … lined up … full power. Twenty … thirty … fifty … seventy … ninety – she wants to lift … power down … fifty … forty … no engine overheating, all in the amber zone. Turning … lining up … fifty percent power … forty … sixty … eighty … one hundred … nose up … ten feet … twenty feet … stable … power down … touchdown, bit of a wobble … sixty … forty … twenty … turning around … lining up … sixty percent power … forty … sixty … eighty … nose up … climbing ... she’s steady … left bank … coming around … speed rising, now two hundred, easing power off, coming around … lined up … left bank, right bank … nose up … nose down … tail slip left … slip right … coming back around … lined up, power down … one forty … on approach … one twenty … one hundred … nose up … ninety … down, bit of a wobble … power down … sixty … forty … twenty … turning … lined up … sixty percent power … fifty … seventy … nose up … gear up, how’s it look?’

‘Gear up, Hal.’

‘Flaps up, climbing, two hundred … two forty … two sixty … two thousand feet, levelling off … two eighty … three hundred … three thirty … three fifty … three eighty … four ten … power to seventy-five percent … four fifty … four eighty … easing her back … three hundred … two fifty … coming around … see you now … coming around … lined up … flaps twenty … one eighty … one sixty … one forty … one twenty … one hundred … down, still a wobble … power down, get the kettle on.’

‘Four hundred and eighty miles an hour!’ an engineer shouted. They hugged each other.

‘And that wasn’t at full power,’ I noted.

Jimmy faced them. ‘Take it apart, gentlemen, and test everything. I want the second and third prototypes here in six weeks, we’ll have visitors.’

We greeted Hal on the apron. ‘For 1927, that’s a record,’ I told him.

He nodded. ‘1938, Spitfire in a dive does four-sixty. This will do that in a climb on sixty percent power.’

We flew Hal back with us, leaving the engineers to take the plane apart and examine everything in detail; the local wildlife would now get some peace. Back at the plane factory they called me in, one of my ideas taking shape. They showed me tangle of metal connected to small control surfaces. I stared at it, my hands in my pockets.

‘It’s an auto-trim,’ they explained.

‘Ah,’ I let out.

‘When the plane moves from straight and level the mercury in this container moves, and completes electrical circuits that move the small secondary ailerons. The plane then moves back to level. The main aileron is shorter, the new surface slots in next to it, since we don’t want to move the main aileron at speed. Same for the elevators.’

‘And the compass heading?’

‘We haven’t cracked that yet. Pilots need something to do!’

‘When will it be tested?’ I asked.

‘In a few weeks, we’re fitting it to a Goose.’

‘Goose?’

‘That’s what we call the seaplanes.’

‘Fine. Goose Mark … Three?’

‘Five now, boss.’

‘I’d be interested to see it work. Let me know.’

Jimmy sent a telegram to Timkins, inviting the British Minister of War over to see the new jet. He also invited his Canadian counterpart, Jimmy being oddly secretive.

I received my new family car that week, the prototype. It was big and bulky, lots of room inside, plush seats and room in the back for six. It still had a powerful engine, toned down, and it shifted. A large petrol tank meant that it could go for three or four hundred miles before stopping. I drove it home to incredulous looks from people, and grabbed Susan, the maid watching the baby, and took my good lady for a drive.

On the highway I opened her up, reaching sixty easily – but smoothly. This was quality and power. We headed around to the hotel and showed everyone, and everyone now wanted one; Jimmy ordering that the first twenty would be for us, the rest to be sold. The gears were manual, but positioned behind the wheel, and still with a clutch.

The next day Susan and I drove to Vancouver, being stared at. Compared to the cars of the day, this new saloon was sleek and sexy. That weekend I packed a hamper, the baby and the maid, and we went for a drive in the countryside, finding a viewpoint with tall pine trees. The day out was just great. Life in 1927 was not so bad if you had the money, and the weather.

But then Hal put a dampener on things. He called me down to the factory one morning, and I found a crowd of people stood watching what looked like a flying bedstead. Hal started the motor, Hacker swinging the rotors to get them started. Hal wound up the rotors as he sat on the outline of what looked like a gyrocopter, the tail rotor spinning.

With the rotors up to speed he bounced up off the ground and wobbled, climbing to around five feet, the engineers amazed. He turned slowly to face us, and then kept turning till he was facing the airfield. Nose down, he moved off across the grass and taxiway gaining speed. He came back down the field gaining altitude, and then flew off down the inlet.

Jimmy lowered his paper. ‘Cookie, is that daft sod flying a helicopter?’

Cookie looked out the window. ‘Like James Bond in Dr No.’

Hal circled the hotel at speed, people looking up and amazed at the flying bedstead. He flew over the aircraft factory again, engineers peering up, and then buzzed the town, people wondering just what the heck it was. He circled the tractor factory, the jeep factory, and then lost control, taking down a factory roof as he plummeted through it. He ended up wedged into the roof supports, glass raining down on people, and had to be rescued by ladder and rope, the bedstead lifted out on a crane. He suffered cuts and bruises, and a dented pride. He then faced Jimmy.

‘You’re on a mission, not a fucking jolly! We’re here for a long time, so try if you can to be here next year. You’re grounded till I say, and you will assist with the repair of my fucking roof that you demolished you overgrown kid!’

Hal went and sulked in his room; I found him there later. ‘What da you want?’ he asked me. ‘I’ve been spanked.’

‘Fucking hell, Hal, we need you in one piece.’

‘Yeah, well it’s all dangerous, every flight I take.’

‘The other aircraft are tested well before we put people in them, that fucking flying bedstead wasn’t. Hal, I gave you a second chance by bringing you along, don’t make me sorry. You have an opportunity here, a good one, so wind your neck in and test that fucking helo carefully first. Flying accidents are one thing, but avoidable accidents are another.’

He sulked in his room for a day, meals sent in by Cookie, then helped with the roof repairs. A week later he apologised to Jimmy and myself.

‘Test the damn thing carefully,’ Jimmy told him. ‘You’re over a hundred, not twenty-one!’

I spent time with the FBI team, watching as they stormed houses in covering positions, learning not to just spray it around. They held up bottles as their colleagues fired at them, and then commented on their colleagues’ stance and posture. They all now looked fit, and now wore the standard combats and boots.

I observed them on the assault course - that was also a live firing range, and they were coming along, working in pairs and teams.

“Moving, firing, ten o’clock – got him, watch the right, moving.”

I could see the soldiers of the future in them. They crawled and shot, ran and shot, hid and shot at targets, receiving lengthy sniper training. One group were now trying to punch the instructors and getting knocked about, taught hand-to-hand, another being taught basic principles of flight. Sitting with a group having coffee and corned beef, I asked how they were finding the training.

‘Never done so much in a short space of time,’ one said. ‘FBI basic training was interesting – so I thought at the time, but this is great. It’s hard work, but we’re enjoying it. And that fifty cal rifle … Jeez.’

‘And those grenades. They’d make the bootleggers stop and take notice alright.’

‘We’ve never seen nothing like that AK47 neither,’ they said.

I put in, ‘The soldiers here have a year’s training compared to your six weeks, and harder.’

‘They’re a tough bunch alright, all built like circus strong men.’

‘I like the stories about Africa,’ one said. ‘That sounds like a hoot place to be soldiering.’

‘How’s your pistol work?’ I asked.

‘Never fired so many damn rounds,’ one said. ‘And I reckon now I could kill a man at seventy yards every damn time. And we wear pistols on our legs like old time gunslingers, fast on the draw.’

‘And camouflage?’

‘Jeez, but your boys pop up everywhere. We sit down for a sandwich in the woods and up they pop. Every time wees fail to spot ‘em it’s fifty push-ups for us all.’

‘Let’s hope your learn to be just as good, and give the bad guys hell.’

The British Army’s NCOs turned up a day late, and we found them rooms in the barracks. They were issued with two pairs of new boots and the strange combats on day one, their old berets to be kept and worn; their combats had Union Jack flags on them so that we knew who they were. They were all inoculated, fed well, and started on a fitness regime, even their accompanying officers, a right bunch of public school “Ruperts” who had never done a hard days work in their lives. That would change.

I told them, ‘If you’re not as good as your men, you’ll get no respect. If you’re not prepared to go where your men go, then you’re cowards unworthy of the uniform.’ I was popular – not. ‘And yes, you are all required to parachute, regardless.’

The British foot soldiers were all a bit thick, getting evening classes in English grammar, maths, and geography. Their fitness improved, and they surprised themselves, soon completing the assault course without being sick. Live firing came as a bit of a shock, as did the AK47s and the fifty cal, a hell of a shock.

The British Minister of War then turned up aboard a Goose. But I did a double take at the man next to him: Churchill, member of the select committee for munitions procurement. Fuck! I shook their hands, greetings exchanged, and showed them towards the hotel.

‘A fine plane,’ Churchill let out, lighting a cigar. He noticed my car. ‘What in blazes is that?’

‘Come and have a look,’ I encouraged. He sat in as I started it up, and examined the interior as I pulled away at speed and headed down to the car factory.

‘This shiny box moves like a gazelle,’ he said.

‘You should take a look at my sports car.’

We halted inside the gate, and I asked for the beast to be brought out.

‘Try this,’ I said, Churchill sat next to me. I started her up, the beat roaring.

‘Dear god, man,’ he said.

I eased her out, then powered towards the highway. Once there, I slowed to a crawl. ‘Watch the speedometer.’ I floored it.

He screamed with delight, a hundred soon reached. ‘Capital, Mister Holton, capital.’

I dropped him back safely, escorting him into the hotel, our future wartime leader still smiling.

He shook Jimmy’s hand. ‘The famous Mister Silo, I presume.’

‘The even more famous Winston Churchill.’

‘Only in my club, only in my club,’ he said as we walked in. We fetched his party drinks in the hotel bar, Churchill talking of fast cars and his flight here. He could not shut up about the flight here: tea and food on the plane, a toilet, reclining seats, newspapers! Capital, just capital!

He tired quickly and headed off to his room, and we met them again after breakfast the next morning. A bus transported our party to the tractor factory first, to see the jeeps; Churchill trying one for ten minutes. At the plane factory, two of the visitors eased into a Cessna and viewed the inlet for a pleasant twenty minutes. Back on the airfield, six of them clambered into a Dash-7 and viewed Vancouver.

Back on terra firma, lunch ordered, we spoke of aircraft costs and production times, of Africa - and Churchill’s adventures there. That evening, sat around the bar with Jimmy and myself, he asked, ‘What motivates you, Mister Silo – if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Motivates me … in what area?’ Jimmy asked.

‘In helping poor dumb fools like me.’

‘You underestimate yourself. I have your speeches sent over, and read them all.’

‘I wondered why you slept so soundly,’ he joked. ‘They send me off, even when I’m giving them!’ We laughed. ‘They say you never knew your real parents,’ he broached. ‘Yet you go to great lengths to assist the empire, to the point of grand larceny.’

‘I firmly believe that my parents were British, and I grew up thinking so. As for the help I extend to your countrymen: I see the British Empire as … umpires in a cricket match, allowing fair play. If there is fair play in various regions, then I can do business there. The British influence … is one of roads, railways, and education. A foolish approach by you, but admirable nonetheless.’

‘Foolish of us?’

‘If you educate a man, he’ll want his freedom. If he sees you drive a car, he’ll want one. Rub shoulders with a poor man and you turn on a light, the light of ambition.’

‘A very good point, Mister Silo, a very good point. And what do you see as the future of the British Empire?’

‘If you’re clever, you’ll change your spots to stripes. You’ll change from governors to business partners, letting the locals have the political power, whilst you own the majority stake in the businesses. Those businesses - hotels and railways - will always be more influential than old men in stuffy meeting rooms. Since you’re in many countries to earn a crust from them, business is the way … rather than political dominance. You need to dance with the girl … and touch her when she’s not looking, rather than approach her father.’

He laughed, tipping his head back.

‘Tomorrow we’ll fly off early to see a new toy,’ Jimmy said. ‘Be up at 5am please.’

‘A few whiskies will send me off; just knock hard in the morning.’

At 5.30am we boarded a Goose, soon heading northeast and towards the secret airfield, chatting as we went, coffee made. It was a one-hour flight, and we landed in good weather, a clear sky afforded our visitors today. On the apron sat two prop fighters.

Clear of the Goose, Churchill said, ‘They look damned sporty.’

The pilots were already sat in the planes, starting them as we climbed to the tower roof. And the planes were armed. With cold drinks provided, flies and midges pestering us, the two planes took off in sequence, radio messages relayed via the loudspeaker.

‘Coming back around … slow fly past …’

They flew past.

‘That what you call slow?’ Churchill asked.

‘That’s what we call … crawling,’ I said, getting a look.

‘Coming back around … power up … two hundred … two fifty … three hundred … three fifty … four hundred … four fifty…’

They shot past at about two hundred feet.

‘Four hundred and fifty miles per hour,’ I said, our guests astonished, yet worried with it.

‘On attack run.’

‘Attack … run?’

‘Watch the buildings over the airfield, where the red flag is,’ I said, pointing.

They peered across. Our two planes swooped in, modified RPGs fired down, the buildings blown to pieces. Our planes landed.

‘Most impressive,’ they said, but cautiously.

Churchill said, ‘These aircraft would be available to us to buy?’

‘They would,’ Jimmy confirmed. ‘If you were at war, attacked, or needed them. They would not be available to buy as toys, since playing with toys causes jealousy in others, and we don’t want other nations to know what toys we have to play with – till we stick them down their throats.’

Our guests exchanged looks.

The wine of jet engines starting could now be heard. ‘What in blazes is that?’ Churchill asked.

‘The planes you just saw would give any nation a shock if they met them on the battlefield. This next aircraft would … finish them off.’

Now they could see the jet taxiing out.

‘That thing has no propeller,’ they noted.

‘The propeller … is on the inside,’ Jimmy explained. ‘A clever bit of design.’

The roar increased as Hal taxied the jet down to the end of the runway.

‘Lined up,’ crackled from the loudspeaker. ‘Flaps twenty … power up, sixty percent … twenty … forty … sixty … eighty … nose up … gear up.’

‘Gear up, Hal.’

‘Flaps up … full power.’ He went vertical. ‘Two thousand feet … four … six … nine … twelve … fifteen … seventeen … nineteen … twenty thousand, levelling off.’

The visitors could see Hal’s vapour trail, all now craning their necks, hands over eyes.

‘He’s now at twenty thousand feet,’ Jimmy informed a stunned group.

‘Nose down … picking up speed … three hundred … three fifty … four hundred … five hundred … six hundred … seven hundred, supersonic … seven fifty … eight hundred … eight fifty.’

The sonic booms hit us, people glancing around to see what was making the noise.

‘Levelling out … power down.’

‘Nine hundred miles per hour,’ Jimmy informed the group.

‘Coming back around … attack run … lined up … flaps twenty … slowing.’ He fired a burst at the ruins of the buildings over the field before levelling off. ‘Power on … picking up speed … turning around … lining up … four hundred … five hundred … six hundred.’ He burst past, just a blur, people snapping their heads around, hands over eyes.

‘Dear god,’ someone said. These guys were still flying biplanes made of cloth and wood.

Hal landed, and we nudged people down and towards the jet. With the engine off, Hal clambered down and met us.

‘What does it feel like to ride that beast?’ Churchill asked.

‘Like having a rocket underneath you, sir.’

‘You’re an American?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Churchill turned. ‘And do the Americans know about these astonishing aircraft?’

‘Not yet,’ Jimmy said. ‘And I insist … that the details of these aircraft be kept very quiet. If others … knew of them, then others would be working hard to copy them. And then, someday, maybe the Germans and Italians would have them – and we would not want that, would we.’

Churchill took a moment, lighting a cigar. ‘They would be available to only us?’

‘If Britain was in a war – not of its own choosing - then yes. If America was in a war – not of its own choosing - then yes. For keeping down the natives in Africa? No.’

‘And the reason for this … demonstration?’ Churchill asked.

‘To open your eyes to what is possible, and what is available. And to remind you that if you don’t research better armaments, that there are others out there who might. I did it, so maybe Germany could do so as well. And if they got there ahead of you it would be … most unfortunate. I hereby formally request that the Canadian Government go to whatever lengths it can to keep this place - and these planes - secret, and that both of your nations send me liaison officers, and a few pilots that I can train in the use of these aircraft. That way, should you find yourself in a war, you’d have pilots trained ready.’

Churchill took a moment. ‘Yet you would not release them ahead of time?’

‘If they’re here, and hidden, why would the Germans and others research better planes? They believe you to fly slow biplanes, and now crude and slow monoplanes. When playing poker, why show your hand, when deception is called for?’

‘The plane I flew here in impressed me greatly,’ Churchill stated. ‘How foolish I was to be satisfied with the first gift box opened. And that plane? Could it drop bombs?’

‘Yes, it could. It could fly at twenty-five thousand feet over Germany and drop bombs, or could fly from London to Cairo, drop bombs, and return without landing.’

‘And the cost of these aircraft?’ they asked.

‘Would be whatever they cost us to make,’ Jimmy responded. ‘We don’t aim to make a profit from you, but we may have a few favours to ask afterwards. The first of those favours, for allowing your people to study these planes, is to allow more Russian Jews to settle in Palestine, since they’ve fled the communists and are not welcome in Germany.’

‘An odd … arrangement,’ Churchill noted.

‘Humour me. Now, we have some other toys to show you.’

Churchill stood with an RPG on his shoulder, and checked the aim. Bang! A building in the distance disintegrated. ‘Capital!’

He tried a fifty calibre, hitting a target a thousand yards out, firing a mortar tube next. Finally he tried an AK47, blasting away at a wooden barrel full off water. ‘Capital! You make good toys, gentlemen.’

As we nudged them towards the waiting Goose it powered up, the tea soon on, our guests still a bit stunned. They spoke little on the way back, after all it was a propeller engine aircraft and still loud. I helped with the dispensing of tea and coffee, plus extra pillows. The guests stared down at the Canadian countryside, and I had to remind myself that passenger flying in this day and age was still rare.

Back at the hotel, we sat again with Churchill, the elderly War Minister off for a nap after the excitement. That War Minister was Churchill’s boss technically, the procurement committee answering to him; Churchill was now in the opposition.

‘You are a Zionist, Mister Silo?’ he asked.

‘No, a realist. The Jews are being expelled from Russia, or leaving of their own accord, and they’re not welcome in Germany. Some will drift back to their ancestral homeland, and a trickle will become a flood - so there’s no point in building a sandcastle of obstinacy when the tide is coming in. A great statesman moves with the tide, not against it.’

‘And you’ll twist our arms in a pleasant manner to get your way.’

‘I will, yes.’

‘I’ve been thinking about what you said at the airfield, and you’re right. If those planes were shown off we’d start a competition, the outcome of which would be a more determined effort on the part of our enemies to catch up. I can see that now. If we have submarines, so must they, and so on and so on. But a war might require a great many aircraft…’

‘We’d see a war coming a year or two ahead, and we’d be ready. Besides, you’d need few of these aircraft,’ Jimmy suggested. ‘We’re also working on other weapons, the likes of which would require more than a few whiskies to get you off to sleep.’

‘And why do you involve yourselves in these things?’

‘We build aircraft to ferry passengers and make money, but we can also see the potential for abuse and misuse of the advancement of ideas and engineering. If we can see it … so can others.’

‘We’ve not long placed an order with de Havilland over here, whose aircraft now appear as is mere paper toys,’ Churchill lamented.

‘We’ll be happy to supply you our basic aircraft at good rates,’ I offered.

‘Could they be made in Britain?’

‘No, the process is very complex … as well as our trade secret,’ I explained. ‘It’s our one great advantage.’

‘Advantage? How so?’

‘It’s damn hard to copy,’ I said. ‘Damned hard. So if our planes were taken apart by people like the Germans … they’d spend a long time scratching their heads and getting nowhere. The key to our security … is in the preparation of the metals used. Four hundred engineers and scientists working five years came up with it, and then it was damned hard.’

‘So it would take another power at least that amount of time,’ Churchill realised. ‘If we possessed them a year before a conflict -’

Jimmy cut in with, ‘My preferred approach ... would be surprise. If you had them, you may simply delay a potential conflict until such time as the enemy felt more confident. If you hit them hard on day one then the shock may just turn the tide of war. And our aircraft can fly from here to London in a day.’

‘A day?’ our guest scoffed.

‘A day,’ Jimmy insisted. ‘And should there be a wider conflict in China or the Far East, we’re well placed to get them to you in a day as well.’

‘Did you choose this place for its isolation?’

‘For its isolation, and its proximity to American markets for our aircraft,’ Jimmy explained.

Churchill lit up again, blowing out a fragrant grey pawl. ‘Given your very colourful tribal background – the stories of which I no longer doubt - not least about how rich you are - some see you as a threat to the stability of our African colonies.’

‘Was there a question in there?’ Jimmy nudged.

‘What are your views on our African colonies, given your sympathies for the blacks?’

‘Those blacks … are not yet ready to govern themselves. If and when they are I will assist them to prise away your grip. The tide is coming in for African blacks, but has at least twenty years to go. At least.’

‘And then?’

‘And then it would be wise for you to become business partners with the blacks, not bed fellows.’

Churchill blew out another fragrant pawl. ‘They say you own half of Kenya already.’

‘And that half is geared towards British staff, British companies, and will always be the case. I may have said it before, but think about business for the future, and be my partner in Africa rather than a colonial power. I make fridges in Africa, and that employs blacks – which helps the local economy. I sell the fridges to hotels, who benefit their customers, improving life in Kenya. I make money, and can spend it on rail track. Do you see the synergy?’

‘Three birds with one stone, if not four,’ our guest admitted.

I said, ‘If you can’t see at least three angles to something we do, then you’re missing something.’

‘Young Peter Forsyth gets a great deal of leeway because of his close connection to you,’ our host thought he should mentioned.

‘We grew up together,’ Jimmy explained. ‘And should he cable me that he needs those planes early, I would probably comply.’

Our host studied Jimmy intently for a moment. ‘You mentioned that you often bored yourself to sleep with my speeches…’

‘I see you as someone with great potential, and a kindred spirit in attitude, although not towards the miner’s strike. I am more … Labour than Tory. Still, you’re welcome here anytime, and you’ll always have my ear; telegram as often as you like. And when you fly aboard my aircraft you will always fly free, anywhere in the world.’

‘That’s good of you, too good. I might be suspicious of your motives – if I actually held any cards. Since you hold all of the cards I shall play at being a good underling. You not only have the aircraft, you have the cars and munitions. As a member for the procurement committee, I could justify regular visits here.’

‘We’ll always have toys for you to play with when you arrive,’ Jimmy said with a smile.

Churchill slowly nodded. ‘Any chance of seeing that flying car again?’

I smiled. ‘I’ll have it brought around.’

With our guest in the car, we sat with the Canadians, who were a little bemused as to why they were in on the meeting at all.

‘Gentlemen,’ Jimmy began. ‘We do not wish to involve ourselves in anything without your permission or kind co-operation. We’d also point out that we pay tax here, and employ a great many people. If we sell the British our armaments in the future then you will benefit greatly. You … are our business partners.’

‘Could we put a full-time liaison officer here?’

‘Of course you can, whenever you’re ready,’ Jimmy offered them.

The British promised to house a procurement officer here as well, and to send us RAF pilots. Jimmy asked that the pilots be young, and that they receive at least five years experience with us. Saying our goodbyes outside the hotel, Hal flew by in the bedstead, the darn thing now a little more reliable. He hovered, waved, and flew off.

‘How much whisky was in my coffee?’ Churchill asked, making me smile.

The Canadian Government were allocated an office in the aircraft factory, three men to be sat in it permanently, and Canadian police officers and Mounties could now be seen in the area. The only track leading towards our secret airfield in the middle of nowhere received a sign: “Government property, landmine testing ground, no entry.” Our secret factory received a few signs as well: “This is a restricted area by order of the government.”

A few days later I was called down to the aircraft factory, to the pilots’ office – but by Susan. There stood five pilots in smart new uniforms, and looking just like modern era British Airways pilots.

‘Very nice,’ I said, and our commercial pilots adopted the smart uniforms, turning the ladies heads.

Our Los Angeles water-port had been growing in size, and in international stature. Even the US President took a flight, very impressed with the service. Hearing about it, I said to Jimmy, ‘Air Force One?’

He shrugged, so I sent two seaplanes with wheels to the White House for the President’s personal use, and for the use of his staff. They were delighted, especially with the paint job I had arranged, the Stars and Stripes on the tail. It made all the papers. Thinking on, I went and found Jimmy.

‘Washington, centre of things to come. How about a seaplane port and airport?’

‘It’s a little … ahead of time, by three or four years.’

‘You know me, always ahead of the curve. C’mon, we can clean up.’

‘We can’t make them fast enough now.’

‘I’ll move some around, and get Washington on our side.’ And off I went, buoyed up. I grabbed Ted and his wife and asked them to take a holiday in Washington, kind of right away. They’d find a suitable airfield and concrete it over, as well as making a start on developing a seaplane port. In the meantime, I sent across two additional seaplanes for general commercial use, and six Dash-7s to a grass strip – all repainted to Columbia Airlines.

Those aircraft were pressed into service straight away, Washington to New York, Chicago, Boston, Los Angeles, San Francisco. The Dash-7s handled the closer cities. And I arranged for our British Airways seaplanes from London to refuel in New York and fly on to Washington, reversing the course with passengers bound for London. Ted and his wife were presented to the President, talk of a US flag carrier.

Not wanting to upset the President, four planes bound for Hong Kong were grabbed, painted, and leased to a new company. We held the majority shares – that was part of the deal, but several US businessmen were now involved. American Airlines had been born. Actually, the American businessmen wanted to call it “State to state mail and passenger service”, but I politely told them to fuck off.

Four Dash-7s were delivered straight away, with the new paint job, American pilots hired and trained quickly. Jimmy then insisted that those US pilots play co-pilot with us for six months at least - and gain overseas experience, first. For now, American Airlines would have Canadian pilots. The new pilot uniforms were altered to be blue instead of black, and a handsome bunch of pilots were created.

When those budding US pilots arrived they were taught first on a Cessna, and that was advanced for them; they had flown biplanes previously. With sixty hours on a Cessna, and sixty landings, they progressed to the twin engine Dash-7s, a hundred and twenty hours required, and forty landings. They were required to complete long distance navigation exercises over land and water, and to fly through cloud whilst still navigating. A non-stop flight to Toronto and back was required, as well as basic first aid, fire fighting, and maintenance.

Jimmy commented one day, watching them, ‘They’ll fly in the war.’

It dawned on me that we were training US pilots for 1939, and a good training they were getting. I then created a group of four Master Pilot Instructors, and devised a testing system with Hal. The men, better paid than regular pilots, then went off and co-piloted for other pilots whilst assessing them, each pilot tested once a year.

With the first production Super Goose now ready and tested, some ten feet wider and twenty feet longer than the previous version, I went for a ride. At fifteen thousand feet Hal knocked on the auto-trim and eased back. It worked. The mercury tilt switch moved small dedicated control surfaces and we adjusted attitude very slightly as we went. I immediately had four seats removed from one of the new Super Goose and created a new route, New York to Buenos Ares via Washington and Rio. It was booked solid for two months on day one, mostly by diplomats.

That led to the next logical step, a weather forecast service. We had been tinkering with radios for some time, and long distance short wave radio was available. Men were recruited, and sat in Rio and Buenos Ares peering out the windows whilst sending Morse Code updates to Washington. There they were telegrammed or phoned around, and pilots were briefed on a storm over Rio before they took off. The US Meteorological Service had arrived.

The same service was repeated for Hawaii and all points west, as well as around Canada. Flying to Toronto, the co-pilot could radio ahead and get a weather update from five stations on the route; we were being professional and thorough, Jimmy always concerned for passenger safety – as well as our safety record.

As I was busy concerning myself with airline passenger safety, a time portal crackled into life at Mawlini. A man stepped through. With the portal closed, he swung around a hand-held scanner, smiling at the readings he found. He pointed the scanner into the distance, nodded, then placed one foot in front of the other, plodding through the sand.

Part 3A