Two: Martinis, Mandatory Training, Madness

Is she a Spru-Mitz shipper?

2009 Massachusetts Ave. NW, DuPont Circle

Washington, DC

Alice Roosevelt Longworth

Former First Daughter of the United States

2232 Local Time, 19 JUL 1942

Alice Roosevelt pressed herself up onto a bare patch of a kitchen counter, a swirling swarm of catering staff buzzing around her. She looked to her side and met eyes with her sadly unrefreshed glass of champagne, she downed the remainder in a single gulp before she removed her left heel. The eldest child of President Theodore Roosevelt massaged her ankle as she grumbled to herself.

Alice shook her head, “Who the Hell said that I allowed plus threes at this party?” She sighed and looked up to see the head chef waiting for her bashfully—she was loath to have any more nonsense on her lap, but alas she was not to be fortunate tonight.

“It was Miss Beekman,” the chef answered as he handed Alice a fresh glass of Pol Roger. Alice rolled her eyes. “She has also complained to the waiters about the champagne, rather loudly too.”

“If she asks again—give her a flute of gasoline,” Alice snarled. I’m going to kick that bitch in her mouth. She put her shoe back on and fixed her hair and dress. Her graying hair was swept back into a bob, and her immaculate calming pale azure ensemble could not be more divorced from her mood. “And thank you, dear, this is not what I expected. Let us pray that we don’t run out of booze. Though perhaps, if we run out of hors d'oeuvres, we can serve Miss Trudy Beekman as a spit-roasted long pig.” The chef chuckled at that and bid farewell as the lady of the house charged back into the harried fray.

Parties were one thing—this was no mere party; it was a catastrophe. More than double the guests, an oncoming stream of strangers when she had wished for a quieter gathering. Something was afoot, and Alice wanted in. Rumors were always bubbling in Washington—but this was something different. The government called it a Special Information Quarantine. Hawaii had been locked away behind iron bars and padded walls—but it was DC that was going mad.

Alice waltzed through the corridors of her overcrowded home, giving thanks and making hellos like the practiced hostess she was. All the while, her ears were tuned for whispers, her eyes scrying for those she wished to press for information.

“I hear its ghosts,” a congressman’s wife mused; she was in a little circle of clowns chattering away.

“Well, I hear it’s spacemen,” a banker rejoined, “I heard that from a friend who I served with in France; he knows General Marshall’s wife through her first husband. So, it must be from outer space.”

“Jordan, darling—there is no such thing as spacemen,” the woman replied as Alice posted herself in the adjacent circle of partygoers, only making the shallowest pretense of engaging with those around her.

“And there are such things as ghosts?” The banker tutted back, “And ghosts are wont to interpose themselves into military operations?” He shook his head as he replaced his drink with a fresh glass from a waiter weaving between the masses of gossipers huddled like clumps of washerwomen.

The woman huffed a response, before another from that huddle replied, “I had the privilege of having lunch with the President last week, and he said that they found something as great as Atlantis.” Alice’s ears perked up like a hungry hound, but she continued making meaningless small talk with her circle of third-rate bores.

Both the congressman’s wife and the baker turned the woman, who Alice did not recognize, “Loretta-Marie, that is nonsense,” the banker continued to scold her as Alice moved on to greener pastures.

“—It’s that damned Pineapple Disease. It’s real! And that’s why they’re all terrified—”

“—bastards at the War Department don’t start telling me what they are doing… I will blow my top. I have twenty-thousand dollars in that damned plantation, never had an issue—even when the Japs shot it up. But now… they’ll have to write Waipahu Sugar on my grave—"

“—did you hear that Frank’s Victory Ball was just a distraction? Not a surprise; he’s always smiling and always up to something. My friend in the Senate says they were all thrown out of the Office Building for a secret meeting—" 

Alice slid and slithered, pirouetting through a room filled with silks, serpents, and sinners. Much of this information was not particularly novel, but none of it made much sense—not even the silence. What could be so dangerous?

“They’re Reds,” that searing whisper pierced her ear, “the lot of them. A damned Red mess, it’s Hell.” She saw a group of men sitting and smoking, talking in hushed tones—but not hushed enough. They were agitated. She recognized a few as congressional aides; the one who was talking was one of Hoover’s men whose wife she knew, and Alice remembered that this upstanding gentleman was sleeping with the maid, the nanny, and the schoolteacher. This ought to be fun.

Alice made one more loop around the room, hunting for whispers, but there was only utter nonsense; someone even mentioned vampires, and another mentioned death rays. Alice positioned herself across the chamber from the suited men before cutting across the room, barreling at them with a wry smile.

“Good evening, gentleman.” They all politely stood, except for the Bureau Man, who continued to puff away in peeved thought on the settee. I’ll remember that. “Could a lady possibly borrow a cigarette and a light? I left my case in my room, but I positively require a smoke,” Alice smiled as one of the men produced a cigarette and another produced a lighter. The one with the light attempted to give away his seat, but Alice just sat on the arm of the couch. “Oh, please continue. This conversation seems quite enthralling.”

“Trotskyites,” The Bureau Man hissed, his voice low and full of dreadful anger. Alice could see the rage dripping from his mouth and could hear it shaking in his voice.

Alice gave him a puzzled look, “What?”

“Whatever is in Hawaii. They’re all Trotskyites. Red as a cherry in Lenin’s mustache. An army of ‘em.”

Alice’s cigarette drooped down, almost falling out of her mouth, “You’re telling me my cousin Franklin has found an army of Trotskyites just amidst the Pacific? What? Did they fall from a palm tree like a coconut?” She scoffed as she took a deep drag of her cigarette.

“We don’t know,” His voice was hoarse and heavy. “Not even the Director knows the damned truth.” The agent looked over to his congressional friends, “What we know we’ve gotten from sources.”

“Hmmm,” Alice twisted her mouth in displeasure. This was getting more interesting, but she wanted more—needed more—than just some whispers. She opened her mouth momentarily before a man in pink and greens hustled through the crowd.

“Ma’am, have you seen the Secretary? I was told he was here.” His eyes were wide in panic, his clothes were disheveled, and he grasped his cover like a timid schoolboy in the headmaster’s office. Alice rose and charged at the man, her footfalls barely making noise. As she closed the distance, she noticed a leather satchel cuffed to his wrist.  

“Which secretary, my dear major?” She smiled, her face widening like a predator.

“Hello, ma’am. Apologies, I’m looking for Secretary Stimson.” He was panting like a dog.

“Oh, Jerome—can we get a glass of ice water for this officer,” Alice beckoned forth one of the serving men, as she noticed silver eagles on his shoulders, “Lieutenant…”

“Colonel Sexton,” he corrected brusquely.

“Captain Saxton, I am not sure where the Secretary of War is presently, but I can deliver your missive; I have an idea where he might be, and I have been meaning to catch up with dear old Henry. You can stay and enjoy the refreshments.” What is one more stranger eating my food and sipping my drinks?

For a moment, it seemed like he would hand it all over, but he stopped, realizing his mistake. “No, ma’am. I’ve got orders to deliver this to Secretary Stimson directly.” The waiter arrived with a glass. Colonel Sexton awkwardly juggled his possessions, pressing his cover into the crook of his arm before draining the entire glass in a single, prolonged sip.

Alice frowned ever so slightly and adjusted her hair, “Very well, follow me. He is almost certainly in the study.” Alice buried her scowl as she led the Army man like a sad, lonely puppy. The stroll to the study was silent—thankfully.  

They arrived, and Alice slid open the door to find Secretary of War Henry Stimson sitting alone, his head in his hands and a cigar drooping from his lip. He looked up at the pair of figures standing in the threshold, “Oh,” the cabinet officer mumbled to himself, “I’m terribly sorry, Alice, but I needed to sit and think awhile away from all that noise. Lovely party as usual, though.”

“No damage done, dear,” Alice forced a smile. “However, this Major Sexlon was looking for you, and it seems rather important…”

Stimson’s eyes widened when he saw the satchel in Sexton’s hand, “Mother of God…” He paused, staring at the object for a moment, “Is this from…”

“Yes, it’s from General Marshall… It’s DAEDALUS, sir.” Alice’s ears perked up, and a broad, almost overwhelming smile crossed her face. Stimson gave Sexton a bleary-eyed look before looking at Alice.

“Alice, could we have the room for a few more moments? I’ll make it up to you…” Her smile faded in a flash, replaced by a raised eyebrow. “I have a nice bottle of brandy with your name on it.” A slight frown formed at the corner of her lips; Stimson caught her reaction, “I meant to say several bottles.”

Alice smiled, “Why of course, take your time, Mister Secretary. I have no doubt it is very important.” Alice stepped back from the threshold and slid the door closed. She took a few steps down the hall, taking care to make sure her footfalls were audible. She then removed her shoes and waltzed back to the door without making a sound. With her shoes in one hand and her ear pressed against the oak of the study’s sliding door, she listened as an earnest smile rippled across her face.

Stimson’s voice shattered the calm like a bomb, “JESUS CHRIST, BILL!” The wood vibrated ever so slightly. His voice became hushed, “Heat rays? Really? Heat rays? Jesus Christ. This is a goddamned mess. Who do they think they are?” He exhaled violently, his breath in tatters, “Thank the Lord it stopped there, at least. These people… I think they might be animals.”

Sexton cleared his throat, “Sir, what kind of animals have got ray guns?”

---

Tent No. 112, Naval Facility Molokai

Commodore Selina Mitscher, USN, CERFOR

Molokai, Maui County, HI

Commander Air Group, Carrier Air Division Thirteen (CVD-13)

1225 Local, 19 JUL 1942

Commodore Selina “Cat” Mitscher grumbled as she trudged along the wooden plank walkway with a satchel over her shoulder and a brown paper bag filled with burritos wrapped under her bionic left arm. There was activity all around her. The Seabees and Red Patches were busily creating all the necessary long-term housing for the fleet. She could see flash-crete and mass-timber structures slowly rising from the earth of this island of lepers.

We’re really in this for the long haul, eh?

There were tens of thousands of personnel who needed housing and billions of dollars of truly irreplaceable equipment that needed storage. All of this work was done with a cold, business-like demeanor masking a fatal morosity. Their hopes for a glorious and quick entry to the war—a real ticker-tape parade and a big brass band—had been dashed about a dozen times over by now. They were interned. They were foreigners in a home that was no longer their own. Cat tried to avoid thinking about what she could not affect and instead focused on getting her aviators and aircrew housing and hangar space—especially since she had been put in charge of the Composite Testing Force’s nearly seven-hundred aircraft. Even then, she was mostly waiting on the Seabees to get their facilities built. She was queen of an unbuilt parking structure.

Mitscher took a deep breath. She could see the light at the end of the tunnel, “Fifteen minutes, in and out,” Cat muttered to herself as she approached the door labeled VFA-103.  She knocked on the tinclad door as sounds of music echoed through the siding of the reinforced Alaska shelter.

She shifted the paper bag of burritos to her other arm and banged on the door; the composite and amorphous alloy titanium arm could punch through the door if she needed it, but it was enough to get someone’s attention. “Come in! It’s unlocked!” A voice beckoned. Cat took one last breath before swinging the door open, expecting some weird shit.

Even then, she was decidedly unprepared for what she found. The noise was the first thing. A wireless speaker was softly playing music—something of rather exotic taste—Mongolian Battle Jazz. She then clocked the squadron’s CO, Commander Nathan “Bucket” James working an oversized wok on a full gas stove. Where the fuck did they find that? He was facing away from her, only wearing pants from his Class B Service Undress Khakis and an apron. At least he’s wearing pants. That memory sent a cold pang down her spine.

Sitting on the top bunk of the bed nearest the stove was someone Cat immediately recognized as an outsider. No one in CVD-13 had silver hair like that, and the multi-cam pants of a Class C Joint Service Uniform Battle Dress meant they were Marine. They could be from 9th MAW, but they were wearing an olive-drab tank, so Cat could had no name to reference, and they had a bag of frozen peas pressed to their face. It took an extra second for Mitscher to realize that the interloper was far from in mint condition. There was dried blood on the cheek, and their arms and elbows were also clearly torn up and covered in gauze and bandages. They waved at Cat as if they knew her—that just made her eyepatch itch.

The fuck is going on Bucket. Cat took a few steps inside. There was no one else in the hut. They forgot didn’t they? She shook her head and looked down. Something caught her eye. Something box-shaped was covered by a towel on a coffee table between the two couches in the center of the room.

“Wuldn’t do that, ma’m. Ith justh wenth to thleep,” The Marine warned the CAG in a slurred, lispy voice. Cat looked up and saw that the Marine had moved the bag of peas, revealing more damage, including a few missing teeth. The mysterious individual’s identity clicked into place. Cat’s face went a little slack.

“Commander James…” Commodore Mitscher started, “I believe we have a meeting scheduled.”

Bucket just about jumped out of his skin. He turned around with horror melting down his face. Cat met his eyes with a glare and then looked down to see that the talented, experienced ace fighter was wearing a bright pink ‘moms against catboys’ apron. He did his best to keep his composure. “Ah, Co-moh,” using the informal for commodore, “I assumed you got the memo. We had’a reschedule ‘cus my people got dragooned by Seabees. Berl ordered it and notified you. Did that email not reach you, ma’am?”

Cat dropped the paper bag of burritos on the table and pinched the bridge of her nose, “Nathan, I have not been able to turn on my computer or phone for the last week. The patch that the Wizard gave to my staff bricked our shit. Do you know what he gave me as a stopgap?” Bucket shook his head, “A Fridge. I have had to make phone calls using a fucking fridge. Do you have any idea how inefficient that is?” She collapsed onto the shitty couch that had been clearly stolen from the Gravely class Destroyer Escort USS Gee from the coat of arms on it. That was a story that Cat did not need to have elaborated.

“Well, that’s a bummer, ma’am,” Bucket replied. “Hey, at least we have that dollar sat constellation from the Wood, that and the communication HABs that Frerrick cooked up—that we’re even able to set up something like a forward intranet is a miracle.” He paused for a second, “Also, a fridge?”

Bucket was annoyingly correct. They were very lucky to have any meaningful network capability, even if they were rudimentary and unreliable.

Cat shook her head, “I’ve already spoken with Commander Yancy, but apparently, they’re struggling to find a solution which reverses the patch and preserves the data on our computer—and we don’t know if we have any backups on the buffer we came through with. I haven’t been able to speak with Holloway—or Frerrick or Payne, for that matter. Yance told me to go try LaVine—but no one in fleet networks has gotten back to me. I think Skid” Captain Tom “Skid” Brogren, her Deputy CAG “is about to go insane, so I decided to clear his schedule and tell him to take the day off.” She looked down at the food bag, “The Big Galley had burritos, so I got some. Chef Winston sends his regards and also to tell you to go fuck yourself.”

Bucket smiled, “Aaaaah, he misses me. You know I was just making a fusion Tex-Mex Stir-fr—” The unattended wok behind him caught fire; crimson flame danced up to the side of the fabric shelter as Bucket yelped and sprung back into action. Cat pressed into the couch and grabbed the armrest with her hand. Her eyes widened in true horror. The flames found no purchase in the composite fabric, but it did give the flag officer some mild arrhythmia.

The interloper started giggling. Mitscher looked up at them, “So, now—Lieutenant Commander Tyler, what are you doing ‘round these parts? I thought you and your lot were staying wet.” A wicked grin grew across the angelic features of the silver-haired combat surgeon before her. Cat braced for something uncouth.

She was relieved when a sex pun did not escape the lips of the JSOC-rated battle doc, “Thkateboarding.” The lisp from their damaged face was pretty pronounced.

There was a solid fifteen seconds of silence as Como Mitscher struggled to find the words, until the word “What?” trickled from her mouth. Cat realized she shouldn’t expect anything less from them.

Bucket, still attending his wok, answered for Mint, “So we was walking back from the job site—we were helping One-Nine organize their warehouse—and we run into the Lieutenant Commander trying to teach themself how to skate. They tried to show off with an ollie—and immediately ate shit.”

Cat winced as she fished a burrito out of the bag, “Well, fuck me, that sucks.”

“Big time,” Mint muttered.

Cat took a bite out of the breakfast burrito and shook her head. Then something else clicked in her brain. Why the fuck did the Miller’s CAG yank one of my squadrons for grunt work? She looked back at Nate, who was finishing up, but before she could speak, a side door swung open and slammed into a metal bunk frame. Mint’s eyes went wide right before a new noise tore into the world like a psychic tear cutting through the warp bringing forth a horde of Khornate berserkers. Hell sprung from inside the little box on the coffee table.

“Goddamn it, Buns! Harold just fell asleep!” Bucket yelled as Lieutenant Commander Henrietta “Buns” Nakamura stood sheepishly in the threshold, her hair wet from a shower and a towel around her neck.

“Afternoon, Nok,” Mitscher greeted her rogue protégé as the two others shouted; but her Cat’s remain locked on the towel-covered box, now thrashing on the table.

“Morning, Commodore,” Nakamura replied. “Ah, didn’t get the email, ma’am?”

“Nope. NavAir’s computers are busted, and evidently no one knows that,” Mitscher answered. “Commander, mind telling me what the fuck is going on?”

“Oh yeah, that’s Harold,” the Chief Jolly answered as if that was sufficient.

“What the fuck is a Harold?” Cat shot back as she lifted the shroud, revealing a very angry weasel creature in a cage. “Okay, where the fuck did you find this?” The more Cat thought about how this ferret or weasel or whatever had managed to end up in a cage in a fleet base in lockdown/informal internment, the more her head hurt. “Did you trap a ferret?” She was incredulous. She hadn’t checked in with VFA-103 for a week, and this is what happened.

“Mongooth,” Mint corrected through broken teeth. Cat looked down at the animal, utterly bewildered.

Buns’ voice appeared in Cat’s ear, “These burritos for us?” Cat looked up and found the squadron’s XO looming over her.

“Yeah,” Cat answered flatly. She gave up trying to understand, “You want veggie, bacon, or sausage.” She heard Mint’s eyebrow raise at the mere mention of sausage.

“Bacon, if it pleases, ma’am,” Buns answered faely as she awkwardly clambered over the couch to sit beside the CAG.

“Is this a frat house or an officers’ barracks?” Cat muttered to no one in particular.

“Oh no, ma’am, this is Hell,” Buns answered cheerily as she snatched a foil-covered burrito.

Cat put her food down in front of the cage, and Harold proceeded to try to gnaw his way through the bars to get at it, “What the fuck is going on with Ben Berl?”

Bucket was attending his wok, doing the last finishing touches, “Have you not heard, Cap?”

“Nate, I’ve been trying to figure out maintenance for a medium-sized air force with a spare parts chain that is now more valuable as an industrial seedling, all while playing wack-a-mole with Y2K bugs, and trying to figure out how physically manage all of our birds safely while we are technically interned. I wanted to see my squadrons, and I also needed to prevent my goddamn DCAG from going insane. The fuck have I gone and missed?” Bucket scratched the back of his head awkwardly. Cat felt a pit open in her belly, “Ben gone and done something stupid?”

Nate looked very embarrassed all of a sudden, “Uh…”

“Told you we should have told her,” Buns mumbled.

Cat looked back at Buns, “Told me what?”

“Berl has been dead set on getting every squadron to complete their mandatory online training, the ones we needed to complete back before uh everything. He’s especially been on our case ‘cus we didn’t finish our prelims before sailing, but we had that maintenance reshuffle with our Wasps, and it was between birds that fly or people completing their third refresher courses on infosec.”

“Mandatory… online… training?” Cat was looking dead ahead. The words struggled to leave her lips. She knew it, this was it, she’d truly gone insane, and this was the last remnants of her psyche delivering one last final, passing, vengeful retaliation.

“Yeaaaaaah… it’s bad,” Buns surmised as she took a bite from her burrito.

“Nate, could you change the music? I don’t think this shit is good for my psyche.”

“Of course, Co-moh,” Bucket changed the song. Some really bubbly Am-Pop replaced the throat-singing and brass. Cat didn’t recognize the song or the idol group—but she was never much one for K- or J-Pop, or their American iterators. Though the song did remind her of that time when some BTS fans attempted to car bomb a performance by the up and coming group SYT at Lockheed Presents Wrigley Field in 2027 after a fan-cam war on Twitter turned into an actual gang war.

“I’ll-I’ll,” Cat sighed, “I’ll talk to Ben and set him straight. If not. I’ll just tell the Old Lady, and she’ll drop-kick him into the Pacific. Fucking Corpo Navy, man.”

“Tell me about it,” a new voice answered. Cat looked up and saw Buns’ back-seater, Lieutenant James “Blitzen” Renner, looking back at her. He had a book in his hand and looked awfully tired. “Morning, ma’am.” Mitscher glared at Blitz as he sat down on the couch opposite her and Buns. Bucket joined him, giving Mint an otter pop on his approach.

Cat handed out burritos to everyone. Bucket stuck with his own stir fry. Blitz tossed his book on the coffee table and mixed his vegan breakfast burrito into a helping of Bucket’s Very-Not-Vegan stir fry. As Harold the Mongoose continued to try to break out to the tune of “Firelight” by RSR (what was apparently the name of the song and idol group), Cat caught a glimpse of the book’s cover; it was True Allegiance. It was strange to see a printed book instead of an e-reader or fiber panel reader, but Blitz was weird—like the rest of the Jollies.

Her mouth went agape, “Isn’t that by Ben Shapiro?”

“Yep,” Blitzen answered nonchalantly.

“The guy who David Carradine’d himself in an Arby’s bathroom?”

“The very one.” Blitzen smiled, “It is truly one of the vilest, uninspired pieces of shit, I’ve ever had the displeasure to read.”

“Then… why the fuck are you reading it?”

He looked back at her, “Because I’m angry at how fucked everything is, and I wanted to distract myself before I go smack Captain Berl or something equally dumb.”

Cat nodded along. “I can punch Berl for you if you want. Especially since that fucker press-ganged an entire squadron of mine without a phone call. I mean—”

“He did call you, but your phone is broke,” Bucket corrected her.

“Right, well, still. I’ll smack him over the head for not verifying receipt of his message. But you fuckers better make sure you contact me if anything like this happens again, so help me God.” She sighed, “I also want to make sure you keep your time up in the trainers, and I want updates on your readiness; we never know when we’ll get our show-call, so stay frosty.”

“Do you have any news on that?” Mint asked, “On our show call.” Their lisp remained pronounced.

“I don’t even think the Gennies know, but there is a legit chance we are going soon, King might be desperate enough that he’ll give in, but no one in Washington knows what to do,” Cat replied coldly. “Wait—why the fuck are you here, Mint? Aren’t you supposed to be on the—” She stopped herself before to talked about one of the many things she wasn’t supposed to talk about, “Why didn’t you go to the aide station?”

“Doc Dugan said that if the thaw me, sey’d shoot me.”

“Once again, Captain Dugan proves she’s the best surgeon in the fleet.”

“Hey, she never performed surgery on herself in the backroom of a burning whore-house has she?”

All four aviators gave the SARC a bevy of displeased side-eye. Bucket was the first to speak, “I don’t think you’re saying what you think you’re saying, Mint.” They rolled their eyes.

Cat started snickering, “Don’t be too sure about that, Commander Tyler—Doc Dugan has more to her than first meets the eye.”

“What?” Mint tilted their head, “Is she a Spru/Mitz shipper?”

---

West Wing, White House

Washington, District of Columbia

Mister Harry Hopkins

Special Assistant to the President

0031 Local Time, 22 JUL 1942

Harry Hopkins silently stepped through darkened halls; he passed the empty cabinet room heading for the President’s office. He had been the President’s roommate since May of 1940, having stayed over after discussing the invasion of the Low Countries, and had remained ever since. Tonight, he had noticed that the President had yet to return to the Residence, and it was late; so, Hopkins, full of concern and curiosity as to what the President might be up to, was on the hunt.

Hopkins noticed a subtle light flickering out of an open door to his right and that the President’s Secretary’s office door was closed. That’s odd. His steps along the corridor were muted. He poked his head through the open threshold. Only a single lamp was on, producing an insufficient yellow light that barely produced enough to brighten the area surrounding the conference table. At the table was a figure mostly cloaked in darkness, his face hidden.

“Mister Hopkins,” the voice called as the tip of a cigar flared red hot, revealing the outlines of the face of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, “Can’t sleep either?”

“Something like that, Mister President,” Hopkins replied as he took one more step and leaned against the doorframe.

The President sighed as he looked down at the documents before him, a mishmash of letters, reports, and photographs. The table was covered in paper, a half-empty tumbler of liquor was still open, and the President’s ashtray was almost completely filled with ash and cigarette butts, “What am I going to do about this, Harry?”

Hopkins smirked, “Which this, Frank? There are a rather few possibilities.” The President glared back at his closest advisor. Hopkins did his best to see beyond the President’s penumbral cloak. He took a stab in the dark, “Hawaii?”

“Hawaii.” The President’s voice was tired. A rattle of weariness echoed in his throat, “Nuts, Harry, nuts to this. Do you think what Bilbo is babbling about is true?”

Hopkins raised an eyebrow, “That this fleet are Trotskyites sent from the future to avenge their leader by killing Stalin?” He scoffed. “I think not. Everything I’ve read from Admiral Nimitz has conveyed that they are odd—but American. It’s all very pretty, like a rose, and every rose has thorns—if we take a moment, we are like to be pricked.”

“I think we’ve passed that point Harry—after this,” the President waved his hand, sending curls of cigar smoke wheeling through the darkness, “this street fight. What a mess, but I guess no different than our doughboys in East Anglia or Queensland.”

“I don’t believe our Anglo-Saxon brethren have heat rays or Amazons in riot gear.”

The President laughed at that, “Who knows, Harry—don’t think our British friends would need to use a heat ray in the desert. The sun has that covered.” The President paused and looked at the large fish tank that gave the room its name. His mouth curled in shadow as the light flickered on the glass and water. “We can win this war by our might alone—what this force offers is tempting, but it is not the only function in this damned calculus.”

“Maybe we should procure a calculator or abacus—or perhaps we should merely hire a computer. That might give you an answer faster, Mister President”

The President was quiet for a moment, “If it were only that easy, Harry.”

---

No. 10 Annex, New Public Offices

Whitehall, Westminster, London

Prime Minister Winston S. Churchill

Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, Minister of Defense

0927 Local Time, 23 JUL 1942

The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom was sat upright in his bed, still in his dressing gown. All around him, secretaries moved and minded stacks of papers. The Prime Minister himself was alight, working like the sovereign of a hive of hornets. Another secretary appeared, this time bearing a glass of fizzing, barely colored liquid—it was his morning drink, a whisky and soda. Though it only had the barest amount of John Walker.

“Prime Minister, General Brooke is here for you on an urgent matter,” the voice of a secretary called from the other room. Churchill looked up from the report that he was giving his final edits; satisfied with his additions, he pressed a red ‘Action This Day’ sticker onto it and handed it off to a secretary.

“Yes, yes. Let him in,” the Prime Minister replied as he took the first sip of his drink.

General Alan Brooke, Chief of the Imperial General Staff, was uncharacteristically disheveled as if he sprinted to Whitehall while getting ready, “Prime Minister, good morning.” Following behind him was a man in a dark suit, Brigadier Stewart Menzies, the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service. The Prime Minister had the creeping feeling that two undertakers had just stormed his breakfast.

“Oh, is it?” Churchill teased. He looked the general up and down, “Russia?”

“Not quite, sir, though I do have news on that front,” there was disquieting air of nervousness about him that the Prime Minister did not enjoy. He also noticed that a leather briefcase was cuffed to the SIS Chief’s wrist.

“Well—what is it, Alanbrooke? I don’t have all morning; spit it out.”

“I will need the room, Prime Minister.” The general looked quite uncertain and very uncomfortable—it was unlike him.

“That is not necessary, General,” Churchill scoffed and batted away the suggestion with a hand.

“Apologies, sir—but it is.” The General gave the Prime Minister a knowing look. It was serious.

What in the blazes is wrong, Alanbrooke?

“Very well,” Winston turned toward his secretaries, “Ladies, the room if you would.” He took another sip of his drink and regretted not asking for something stronger. As soon as they left, Menzies moved the briefcase onto the tabletop, input its code, and cracked it open. He produced a set of documents from within and handed them to Churchill, “What are these?”

“Pandora,” answered Menzies. Churchill gave him a confused look. He started reading.

“Who is this from?”

“INTREPID himself. He ferried them to Iceland, where I received them,” answered the spymaster.

The report started serious enough, but it quickly devolved into madness. In one paragraph, it was merely another Monday. The next, it was as if all of Whitehall had fallen into Alice’s Wonderland. Winston half expected to look up and find a large rabbit and a smiling cat staring at him. He only found two scowling gentlemen.

Secret fleet? Super weapons? Time travel? Communists? What the bloody Hell am I supposed to make of this when not even Washington seems to know.

“Mister Stephenson might wish to withhold himself from imbibing the green fairy for the time being,” Churchill tutted as he flipped the page, “I believe it is rather impairing his work.” He stopped on the next page, “Am I supposed to believe that people in Washington really believe that communists from the future are responsible for helping Hitler turn Stalin to ash?”

“That is certainly what people in Washington believe—but—if you read the next page, Prime Minister, that is not necessarily the truth of this sensitive matter,” Alan Brooke answered.

Churchill gave Brooke a dead-eyed glare, “General, this afternoon you will be sober, and I will remain unconvinced.” He turned the page anyway. He found a photograph paperclipped to the page, it was blurry, but clearly, it was taken from the inside of a plane flying over some place of importance. It showed blurry black shapes at anchor off a tropical island. He looked at the paper, and it was said to be a photograph of a place called Kaneohe in Hawaii. He moved the photo aside, and there was another, this time with markings in white ink, measurements, and estimated sizes.

Churchill looked up at his interlopers, “Well, perhaps I spoke too soon.”

---

Third Floor, Central Administration Building, Naval Facility Molokai

Molokai Maui County, HI

Captain Sayumi Kanto, USN, CERFOR

Chief of Staff, SORCERFOR

1152 Local Time, 24 JUL 1942

Captain Sayumi Kanto walked along the cold, bare concrete halls of the CTF—no CERFOR—headquarters. It had been one of the first permanent structures built on Molokai. A square of concrete, the thrumming brain of a fleet out of time. She was returning from a meeting about the cruiser USS Missionary Ridge with the N-3 staffs of each of the fleet’s task forces. They had been reviewing the OPLAN for their debut—assuming they got authorization. They would clear the Aleutians. It seemed like Nimitz was confident he could get approval from the Joint Chiefs, even if Congress were still throwing a fit. They just needed to wait a week or two.

She turned the corner and began walking up the corridor toward the Big Office, she looked down at the courtyard. Captain Mark Frerrick, one of the chief Seabees and the head of their most important program, was surrounded by a goon squad of aides and runners. They were heading for the CAB’s entrance, having made it back from a supply run from Naval Station Pearl. Kanto allowed herself a smile as she adjusted her ink-black hair out of her eyes.

As she approached the door to the Big Office’s anteroom, it swung open, and a herd of officers came streaming out. It was the fleet’s senior aviators. Leading the pack and getting underway at flank speed was Captain Benjamin Berl, the CAG of Carrier Air Wing Two. His face was red as a cherry, and he shot Kanto a quick glance filled with terror and embarrassment. She looked and saw Commodore Selina Mitscher smiling like the cat who had eaten the canary, her left sleeve empty and pinned against her shoulder. The aviators and Kanto traded greetings and salutes before Berl bolted; Cat followed after him with various teases on her tongue.

He's lucky he kept his Eagles.

Kanto walked through the empty anteroom into Lieutenant Commander William “Janet” Janetski’s office. The flag aide was not here. On his desk was a 737 marked by a single red stripe, a pile of documents, his nameplate, and a spray bottle full of water labeled ‘bad sailors don’t go to heaven’ in Sharpie. That made her smile as a rush of memories came back.

She opened the door to the Big Office proper. It was one hell of a corner officer, and lived up to its name. It was well-lit by natural light—floor-to-ceiling windows lined the walls. This was less because of opulence and more because they had dug up extra massive panes of glass in the hull of the floating cargo base USS Ann C. Phillips, and it allowed them to shave several hours off the expected concrete pour—which allowed the Seabees to start their next build early. It was large, but it was cold and barren. It was all smoothed concrete with barely any decoration. Janetski was sitting off to one side, scribbling away at his notes; Command Master Chief Isiah Freeman, the fleet’s senior enlisted advisor, and Commander James Lattanzio, the fleet’s intelligence officer, were sitting in front of their commanding officer’s desk.

“Oh, Kanto, you’re here,” a voice called from behind her. She turned and found the Senior Officer of the Certain Force, nursing a steaming mug of coffee, having entered from the other door in the room that led to the staff offices. The others realized Kanto had arrived and went through the usual chain greeting as Vice Admiral Kimberly Josiah Scott returned to her desk.

Kisco Scott was not a tall woman by any means, about five-five. Her onyx hair was starting to go salt-and-pepper. Her eyes remained a dark, haunting green and retained her characteristic sharpness even if they were now joined by the unwelcome arrival of crow’s feet. She moved with aplomb as Freeman and Lattanzio returned to bickering about something esoteric. Taking a moment to smell her coffee, Scott took her first sip. She smiled at Kanto and motioned for the chair beside her desk. Kanto took the seat. The fleet staff meeting would be starting soon.

“This place fuckin’ sucks,” The admiral’s words could hardly be more disconnected from her cheery tone. She shifted a paper tower across her desk, “If someone told me that time travel would mostly mean paperwork...”

“Could be worse, Vice Admiral—could have even more paperwork,” Master Chief Freeman chuckled.

“True that,” Scott shook her head, “If we introduce these people to PowerPoints, I am going to lose it.”

Janetski started smirking like a bandit, “Admiral, have you considered the inter-operability of advanced joint distributed tactical enhanced lethality evolutional transformational warfighting command and control dissemination slides?”

“Janet, so help me, god, if you put one more buzzword in the air, I’m throwing you out the window.” The mental image of Kisco throwing the former-Swicc out a window made Kanto chuckle. Scott was smiling now, “The best decision I’ve ever made in my career was banning Pentagonese in my office. Them’s the breaks. If you wanna play that game, it’s the window for you, bucko.”

Lattanzio started chuckling too, “Do we have a form to report defenestrations?”

Kanto smiled back, “I believe that is called ‘a felony,’ Commander.”

Scott started laughing as she scanned over a report that she had plucked from the pile of work. The rest of the staff started to file into the office, most were carrying stacks of hard-copy paper documents, which were alien enough to make Kanto’s skin crawl, but paperless admin had proved to be a burden when dealing with the General Service Forces.

Kanto looked down at the paper schedule for the meeting. At the top of the list were UV filters for the base’s housing and reviewing the quarantine and immunization procedures for the Cert personnel authorized to leave the base. Then, they would discuss the base layout again and how to skirt around the requirements to surrender their munitions to ammo bunkers on Oahu. There were also plans for Kaneohe to be revised. There was the issue of some people trying to complete online training they could no longer access. Finally, there was a briefing on Aleutians and an update on the Eastern Front.

Scott scanned over the document and was already jotting down notes in the margins. One hand held her head up while the other scribbled; she looked up, only moving her eyes, “So what’s the future of our cursed current past?”