Put the Sin in SYMBOL

The Prologue to DOUBLE VICTORY. Welcome to Hotel Casablanca. You can check out, but you can never leave.

This is the Prologue to DOUBLE VICTORY’s current draft.

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LE RESTUARANT PANORAMIQUE, THIRD FLOOR ANFA HOTEL, CAMP ANFA

CASABLANCA, ALLIED-OCCUPIED MOROCCO

GENERAL ALAN F. BROOKE, BA

CHIEF OF THE IMPERIAL GENERAL STAFF

2322 LOCAL, 13 JAN 1943

“They’re bloody early, Pug,” General Alan Brooke’s eyes raced down the dispatch as annoyance blinked across his face. The American courier from the communications section loomed awkwardly at the edge of his table lamp’s glow. This restaurant was deserted. Brooke was the sole patron, having worked through dinner. It was only by the kindness of the head chef that the Chief of the Imperial General Staff was able to get something hot to eat. Behind the spotted-faced boy was Lieutenant General Hastings Ismay, the Prime Minister’s military adjutant, who seemed bemused to see Brooke alone. Brooke flicked to the second page of telegrams.

“Quite right, sir,” Ismay demurred.

Brooke answered with a short snort as he finished the dispatch. He glanced back at Pug, “The Prime Minister?”

Pug fished a cigarette from a crumpled pack, “Just finishing a meeting with Johnnie Walker.”

The Chief of the Imperial General Staff answered with a chuckle and another query, “Mountbatten?”

“Chewing cables in the radio room,” the round-faced general patted himself down, looking for a light. He produced a silver lighter from his pants. A wick of flame came to life after two strikes. He took a long drag, waiting for Brooke to reply.    

“Well—let’s fetch the PM,” Brooke checked his wristwatch. They had thirty-eight minutes. “I don’t believe I like this number, but when one must dance… best not to be late.” He hadn’t even had time to get out of his uniform or visit the villa he would be sharing with Admiral Sir Dudley Pound and Field Marshall John Dill—and now this.

A direct flight? That’s a damn fool’s run—and bloody how? General Marshall distinctly said his delegation took their only YC-69s. What else do they have that can cross the Atlantic in one go?

As Ismay and Brooke sauntered down the halls of the Hotel Anfa, they collected a bridal train of staff officers and assistants, confused as to what was going on. He felt less like a general and more like Mother Goose—and Christ, these goslings were ugly. As they walked the hall on the second floor, the air roared with the sound of aircraft, and the entire building shook. For a moment, the general’s heart stopped. He met eyes with Pug. They were both utterly confused. It took a moment until they realized that the aircraft were coming from the west and were heading east—unlikely to be German.

Brooke pointed at the door of the nearest room, “One of ours?”

“Yes, sir,” his adjutant answered.

“Good.” Brooke rapped on the door. Ten painful seconds passed before signs of life could be heard, and the door opened. The young officer was in horrible shape.

The general looked around him to see a squadron of sozzled officers sprawled every which way. The young captain attempted to salute as he recognized the Chief of the Imperial General Staff was outside his door.

“Might I borrow your telephone?” Brooke inquired politely, ignoring his uncouth surrounds. The captain squinted and retched but failed to vomit before bolting into the WC. The man gestured further into the room as he staggered inside the bathroom and fell to his knees. This was not the worst entreaty Brooke had received in his life, but it was certainly unique.

The CIGS stepped over a pair of unconscious lieutenants partially hidden under a liquor-stained top sheet as those still conscious rose to attention with all the grace of a grocer falling into a pyramid of soup cans. He took the room’s phone and dialed the radio room. There was a click as someone lifted the other line. “This is General Brooke. What the Hell was that?”

The phone hissed; there was a bit of a shuffle and hushed voices before a British officer answered in a prim voice, “Apologies, sir, those were some of the new Yank Mustangs. They’ve been scrambled to get some Me 110s coming over the desert on the deck to hit us…”

That confused Brooke greatly. How could they possibly know that? And if they do, why didn’t they tell us earlier? “What?” He stared at the receiver, hoping that a gorgon’s glare might spin truth from chaos. 

“Sir, the boys here are damned confused, even the Yanks—but someone must be confident enough to get them in the air and get them an intercept. Odd business, all of it.”

Brooke grunted his thanks as he hung up. His mind raced with worries that were far out of his control. He glanced at the bushel of stained shirts, a pile of contorted limbs, and a colonnade of not-so-ramrod-straight drunks. This was the last straw. Too much smoke and mirrors—and for too long. The Yanks had given up on SLEDGEHAMMER and ROUNDUP with no warning after fighting tooth and nail for months. There were the lights over Poland and the TRAILSPIKE raids. They couldn’t possibly have been telling the truth about the Pineapple Disease in Hawaii, could they? Time travelers? No, that had to be a bad joke. It had to be. Brooke shook the thought from his head as bitter thoughts of the Second Battle of Coral Sea mixed in his mind with all the whispers, all the confused reports. It was all too much. He refused to acknowledge it. He avoided thinking much about it for six months. He would continue to do so. He had too much to do to spend time musing about—responding to—the impossible.

War was never a certain thing, but this was something else entirely.

It reminded him of May 1940.

He left the room with a sigh and headed for the PM. Why can’t I be the one who is drunk?

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VILLA NO. 3 “MIRADOR,” CAMP ANFA

CASABLANCA, ALLIED-OCCUPIED MOROCCO

PRIME MINISTER WINSTON S. CHURCHILL

PRIME MINISTER OF THE UNITED KINGDOM / MINISTER OF DEFENSE

2329 LOCAL, 13 JAN 1943

“What in God’s name was that racket, Thompson? Are we under attack?” The Prime Minister crowed at his aide-de-camp, Commander Charles “Tommy” Thompson. He was still only clad in his nightclothes, having been roused from his premature slumber by the sounds of engines.

“I believe if we’re asking that question, it’s a no, Prime Minister,” his ADC answered. He had a sheepish look on his face, barely visible in the midnight gloom, “…but perhaps we should get to a raid shelter, sir.”

“Well enough…” The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland galumphed into the sitting room and peered through the blinds. “Heavens! There are men in the garden! Tommy, give me your pistol!”

The commander’s demeanor changed in an instant. “Get back from the windows!” He is voice turned acrid and pointed, hissing like a coiled snake. “Now!” Churchill did as his aid bid and recoiled into the shadows with a hastily seized fire poker in one hand. Thompson darted back into his room to recover his service revolver and descended down from the first floor. “Get behind me, Prime Minister.”

He leveled his pistol at the door. Light from the Hotel trickled between the blinds, betraying the skulking specters drawing closer. There was a click as Tommy drew the hammer back on his Webly Mark IV. The forty-eight-year-old Commander had placed his finger on the trigger when the shadows knocked on the door and spoke with an American twang.

“Mister Prime Minister—I’ve just got the strangest telegram from my father.”

Churchill recognized the voice of the Hyde Park pup. “Tommy,” he started.

“Yes, sir?”

“Put down the gun and open the drinks cabinet.”

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BEHIND VILLA NO. 3 “MIRADOR,” CAMP ANFA

CASABLANCA, ALLIED-OCCUPIED MOROCCO

GENERAL ALAN F. BROOKE, BA

CHIEF OF THE IMPERIAL GENERAL STAFF

2353 LOCAL, 13 JAN 1943

Splayed out along the back of the Prime Minister’s villa facing an elegantly manicured but otherwise empty grass yard were the war chieftains of the Atlantic Alliance. Most were plying themselves with drinks after a frightful jump from that squadron of brand-new P-51Ds.

“Are you quite sure that this telegram is correct?” Brooke asked General Marshall, who was seated, hunched over in a metal chair, nursing the dregs of a double the Yank had drained with truly terrible celerity.

“Yes.” The Chief of Staff of the United States Army answered bleakly. Admiral King and Lieutenant General Arnold seemed intent to out-smoke even the French, having worked through most of a pack of cigarettes each from a fresh carton that someone’s adjutant had procured for this late-night soiree. They hadn’t touched their drinks.

Arnold glared at his liquor with a bit of disgust, “Do you reckon this is the doing of a Certain Force, sir?”

Marshall scoffed, “Well, certainly, but I doubt it is her doing. You know it too, Hap.” He shook his head, “…like a boy with a rocket ship.”

“It seems we’ve been left out of something?” Brooke remarked to no one in particular. The PM appeared with President Roosevelt’s sons—Elliot and Franklin Jr. He stopped at the edge of the patio, slightly wobbling, in his velvet siren suit. “I hope this is not another elaborate jest, gentlemen. I do value my slumber.”

The night sky towered above them, somewhat clouded—a few stars peered down from the blackness. The light of the city dimmed by tonight’s bomber scare. It was actually quite pleasant, perfect for a cigarette and a sherry if only the mood were not so dour.

“Oh, you’ll finally believe soon enough,” Admiral King answered with a bitter chuckle. It made Brooke’s skin crawl.

General Brooke scratched at his ear, “What is that racket?” There was a distant sound—a low whine and a hoarse roar. General Marshall downed his drink. General Arnold and Admiral King finished their drinks simultaneously. The Joint Chief rose to their feet with sudden synchronicity. “Are those French air raid sirens?”

The noise continued to grow. “Sir, I don’t think those are—” It was not coming from Klaxons in the city but the sky. Brooke had never heard the like. The Chief of the Air Staff, Charles Portal, looked like he was about to speak but hesitated and only quietly mouthed something to himself.

Lieutenant General George Patton scratched his head and took a few steps onto the green, “What in the Goddamn is this? Some kind of bastard’s joke?” The general wore a pair of striped pajamas, heavy leather gloves, and a pistol belt.

White lights shifted behind the clouds, brightening the sky with a false dawn. The belt of clouds was cut open by shapes moving like sharks through the water. White hot jets of flame poured from three dark, angular monsters. They had no propellers. They moved slowly yet refused to crash. Dragons, at this time of year? Brooke took a step back and nearly tripped on the patio’s curb as he rested his palm on his pistol. He caught himself as Patton twisted to face the incoming threat, a gloved hand darting to the ivory handle of his .45 Peacemaker.

The light came all at once without warning. The aircraft bathed the hotel complex with overwhelming white-blue floodlights. Brooke shielded his eyes with a hand as they came yet closer. The center-most vehicle began a lazy turn, pointing its blunted, geometric hawk nose away from them. The flames withered the pristine green grass into blackened spikes and then ash in the blink of an eye. A plume of dust, dirt, and sand rippled outward in a wave of projectiles. Every man in the party was sandblasted and coated in a fine layer of grime in an instant, hands hastily placed over their faces to protect from debris and illumination.

The lights from the other flanking aircraft dimmed as a ramp at the rear of the center craft opened. The roar of its engine faded to a whine before dying altogether.

The assembled chieftains, who had hitherto been annoyedly relaxing in the Prime Minister’s back garden, took in the sight before them in total silence, gawking at like schoolboys who had just seen the boogeyman come out from underneath their bed. Brooke felt every beat of his heart and every breath from his lips.

“I believe we are about to meet whomever, or whatever, was hiding in Hawaii.” The Prime Minister began. He paused as he wobbled for a moment, “That—or someone switched my Red Label for absinthe.”

A spindly figure cut through the illumination. Backlit, His features disguised by the blinding flood lights. Brooke felt the hair on his arms stand to attention. He almost wanted to puke from the tension. The figure walked slowly. Their gait was that of a casual stroll, as if they were enjoying the attention. Perhaps they had forgotten an umbrella to twirl in their aerocraft. Other shadows started to creep from the craft. Their forms were indeterminate. Brooke resisted the urge to go for his own pistol.

“Gentlemen! It’s a wonderful night for a stroll, don’t you think?” The voice was clear and calm—and familiar. “Though, perhaps I owe you an explanation—but in due time!” Brooke was certain he had heard this man speak before; he shifted his head.

Of course. He knew that voice.

Another step forward and the features of Franklin Delano Roosevelt—moving without assistance or a limp—became visible to all those standing on the patio. A frozen Elliot Roosevelt dropped his glass of bourbon.

Shattered crystal spread across the floor. “Pa?” Franklin Jr. asked of the figure.

The world did not stop as the President embraced two of his three living sons. Brooke did not let his eyes linger on the reunion of a grieving family but on three figures who stepped into clear view in lockstep. Three Magi moving from the dark into the light.

There was Brooke’s American opposite, Admiral Leahy—the Chief of Staff to the Commander-in-Chief—and the President’s seneschal and emissary, Harry Hopkins.

And there was someone else. Someone Brooke had never seen before.

She—she—was wearing an alien navy-blue stand-collar uniform, distinctly American but all wrong. Three silver stars rested on her shoulders, and a rainbow of ribbons ran down her chest. Short with her features just barely showing the strains of time. She had short but dense curled hair and a constellation of small, fresh scars all across her face. But neither her sex nor her vestments drew Brooke’s focus.

Since when did the Yanks start going around giving coloured women three stars?

 “Oh Heavens,” the Prime Minister muttered, “It was the absinthe.”