USA 2002 in 1942 section 8

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While ISOT American 2002 (Written by Dave Knudson) is the 2002 US transported to 1942 it can serve as a rough template on how the Infopunk and Dieselpunk Earths interact. The formatting at the source archive has issues and so the piece is provided here. Due to its size it is in sections.
*USA 2002 in 1942 section 1
*USA 2002 in 1942 section 2
*USA 2002 in 1942 section 3
*USA 2002 in 1942 section 4
*USA 2002 in 1942 section 5
*USA 2002 in 1942 section 6
*USA 2002 in 1942 section 7
*USA 2002 in 1942 section 8
==USA 2002 in 1942 ISOT Part 22 "Keep your eye on the Ball"==
Given the fact that he was only 22, the reception he got was well
nigh incredible. The capacity crowd in the stands went wild -
absolutely insane - as soon as the Red Sox' Nomar Garciaparra lined
out to Derek Jeter. It didn't matter that the poor fellow was out; it
mattered who came to the plate next. He emerged from the dugout (he
hadn't been in the batters' box; the Red Sox knew how to put on a
show, and the umpire - since this was only an exhibition game -
allowed it), and maintained his poise as he walked to the plate. As
he took a couple of practice swings, he eyed the Yankees' Roger
Clemens with intensity. The roar of the crowd at Boston's Fenway Park
so completely drowned out the announcer that the batter's name was
lost to echoing sound that rebounded from the Green Monster in left
field back towards home plate, but it didn't matter - everyone knew
what was happening.
For the first time in 42 years, Ted Williams stepped up to the plate
at Fenway Park with a bat in hand.
It hadn't been much of a 2002 season. By March 23, most players had
been at Spring Training of course, but many had not. With the war,
the disorientation, and the general lack of organization, the 2002
Season had given way to a series of exhibition games, and USO-Type
shows for both 2002 troops and 1942 US expatriates returning home to a
country they didn't recognize.
If the United States had a national religion in 1942, it was
baseball. Everyone played, everyone knew their home teams, and
everyone knew the bad guys (be they Yankees, Red Sox, Phillies or
Cubs). Baseball was what reminded people from 1942 that no matter how
strange this new United States from 2002 was, it was still America,
and "Play Ball" meant something special. Baseball was one mechanism
by which the US government planned to reintegrate some members of the
1942 America to the new one from 2002, and it was proving to be a
reliable as ever.
The superstars of 1942 were mostly gone - to wherever the United
States from 1942 went. Williams was an exception - he'd been hunting
in Ontario on March 23 while his lawyers and the US Government
wrangled about his draft status. Upon his return, he learned that the
US government had no plans to reinstate the draft, and that he was a
hero to many.
The disoriented (and young) Ted Williams had been besieged by offers
almost the minute he'd crossed the border at Sarnia. Upon being
approached by agents from many teams, he'd simply retreated into a
hotel (where the proprietor - an old Red Sox fan - put him up for
free), and tried to contact old friends who might still be alive.
His name was in the papers, though, and it wasn't long before the
Commissioner of Baseball - Bud Selig - was shown into the hotel. 
Selig and some lawyers had worked out a plan whereby major leaguers
from 1942 that were in the United States got agents and representation
for their reintroduction to baseball. They're weren't many - but
Williams was the real prize.
There'd been no question of the team, of course. It never even
really occurred to Williams that anyone but the Red Sox would take
him, or that he would go anywhere else. The Red Sox management - no
dummies there - quickly inked Williams to a five-year contract worth
100 million dollars. Their rationale was that even if he couldn't hit
the new major leagues (which he probably could), the sheer name
recognition alone was worth that much in endorsements. Of course, the
Boston papers, the New York Times, and both Letterman and Leno
speculated that, given the Red Sox' history, Williams would soon be
traded for an old shoe and a baseball card to be named later, but thus
far the Red Sox' management was clinging to their reborn star with a
fanaticism unseen in Beantown in a long, long time.
With no idea of how he would play, but intense media speculation, the
Red Sox all but sequestered the young Williams while they taught him
the new game of baseball. More importantly, they taught him the new
game of being a 22-year old superstar in a media spotlight that would
dazzle him. They shielded him from the intense public scrutiny that
would have otherwise come his way, and let him adjust to his new
environment. And when, in early October, the Yankees came to town,
they brought him out.
The Umpire suspended play until the crowd noise had subsided to a
Niagara Falls-like roar, and then gave up and indicated that play
should resume. Clemens' first pitch was a vicious cut fastball that
had Williams diving out off the batter's box even as the Umpire called
strike one because the ball curved back over the plate. The
embarrassed Williams dusted himself off, and waited for the next
pitch. Clemens' next offering was an evil breaking ball that curved
away at the last moment. Williams hideously over-extended himself
swinging for the ball, and almost fell over for strike two. Clemens
then decided on his heat, and a low 98-mph fastball sizzled over the
plate.
Big mistake.
The man with the prettiest swing in baseball hardly seemed to move
his arms. The ball rocketed off the bat in a line drive down the
third base line that resulted in a stand-up double for Williams. The
crowd went, well, bonkers. Play was suspended as the crowd tried to
surge on to the field. Boston PD and Sox security held them back, and
Bean town had reason to hope that the curse of the Bambino might
finally be dispelled in 2003.
The Emperor of Japan had not had a good few nights. After his
kidnapping by the American Rangers, he'd been flown to the carrier
Carl Vinson off of the coast of Japan. From there, he'd been flown to
Hawaii, and then to Los Angeles.
He'd been taken to a place in the desert - "Nellis Air Force Base" -
where more of the Americans' magical planes were. The desert was hot,
but the emperor's accommodations were comfortable, if very heavily
guarded. He had not been mistreated, nor questioned, and he had to
wonder what the purpose of his confinement was - other than as a
prisoner.
On his second morning at Nellis, there was a discreet knocking at the
door to his suite of rooms. The guards around him all spoke Japanese,
and had even provided him with some wonderfully illustrated botany
books from 2002. Many of the pictures in the books were of plant
unobtainable to the emperor in 1942, and he perused them with great interest.
The Emperor had guests. Entering the living room were four Japanese
men in conservative western business suits. Three immediately
prostrated themselves before the Emperor, and the fourth merely stood
to one side. The Emperor acknowledged them, and the three rose to
their knees. None of their eyes rose higher than the Emperor's
collar.
The man in the lead introduced himself as Ryozo Kato, Japanese
Ambassador to the United States in 2002. The other two were embassy
staffers. Kato offered his humblest apologies to the emperor, but
feared he must address the monarch directly. The emperor paused a
suitable amount of time, and then gave the man a barely perceptible nod.
Kato's eyes were on the Emperor's collar. He explained that he had
served as ambassador to the United States since 2001, and that he was
loyal to Japan and to his emperor. The staffers with him were also
Japanese citizens from 2002. The fourth man was Jim Ashigara, an
American of Japanese descent who served with the US State Department.
As much as it pained Kato, the Ambassador felt that he had to inform
the Emperor that Prime Minister Tojo, and many of Japan's highest
ranking military officers had not been giving the emperor the best
advice. Indeed, the course that Japan had taken was sure to bring
about the deaths of millions of the Emperor's subjects in fruitless
combat against the United States.
The emperor did not speak for a moment. Then he addressed the
ambassador. He demanded to know what evidence the ambassador had of
this treason. He knew that the future United States was powerful, but
had it not come from 2002, then Japan would have achieved its military
objectives.
The emperor was almost interrupted by a snort from Ashigara, who was
still standing. No, that wasn't true. Had the United States from
2002 not arrived, Japan still would have been crushed. Attacking
Pearl Harbor, said Ashigara, was just about the greatest act of
stupidity in the history of humanity.
Kato's nostrils flared, and he stared daggers at the American, who
returned the ambassador's gaze blandly. We are not here, Kato said,
to discuss the past. Rather, to discuss the future, and how to
mitigate the impact of the strange event of March 23 on the Empire of
Japan.
Ashigara snorted again. The ambassador should realize that the past
was all there was, and that unless it was addressed - here, now - then
they were all doomed to repeat it. The cliché rolled off Ashigara's
lips, and Kato fumed. Before meeting with the Emperor, every word of
the introduction rehearsed, every statement the Emperor might make
anticipated, and planned responses in place. Ashigara - who had
worked with Japanese Embassy for months - was ignoring the script. 
Despite his rage, Kato understood what was happening here. While the
Emperor was the closest thing to divinity on earth Japanese culture
possessed, to the Americans, he was just a guy. Oh, the understood
his position - Ashigara better than most - but the State Department
knew what it was doing. By not paying the Imperial Person the respect
that the Japanese did, they were letting the Emperor (and Kato) know
that while Hirohito was important, vitally so, he wasn't God.
Just a guy.
The Emperor spoke. He agreed that the important thing was the
future. But what he wanted to know was what he could accomplish as a
prisoner of the United States.
Ashigara looked up. Nothing. He could accomplish nothing as a
prisoner of the United States. Which is why the Emperor would not be
a prisoner much longer. Kato broke in at Hirohito's surprised look. 
Over the next several weeks, the Emperor would be toured - in secrecy,
of course - around the United States. He would visit Japanese auto
factories in Kentucky, sushi shops in Minneapolis, a camera company in
New Jersey, and meet with some selected members of the Japanese
community from 2002 in the United States. The emperor would also see
how the war originally turned out.
Then, Hirohito would see the Japan of 2002 - the Japan that the
future could still hold. He would see a country with deep ties to the
United States. He would see the second largest economy in the world. 
He would see the Asians with the highest quality of life, enjoying not
only a prosperous and happy homeland, but traveling the world to do
business - and do it well - everywhere in the world.
After this, the Americans would return the Emperor to Japan. 
It was their hope that the Emperor would be able to convince the
Japanese of the futility of armed resistance against the United
States. Then, peace could be achieved, without the need for further
loss of life.
After all, said Ashigara, that's what is important here. 
Keeping people alive to work for Japan in the future. He was sure the
Emperor would agree that was what should be focused on. As the
Americans say, that was the pitch to watch for.
Captain Robert Oakley of the US Army tried to make himself one
with the dirt berm he was on. He clutched the binoculars in his hand
as German artillery fire from central Leipzig rained down. Overhead,
US counter battery fire - much heavier than the German fire - whistled
towards the besieged city.
Leipzig was going to be a bitch. A cast-iron, no-holds-barred,
unforgiving bitch. Oakley had participated in the big American
assault that had cleared Hannover, and that had been tough. But there
had only been two divisions of Germans there, and they hadn't figured
out how to fight the Americans right off. They'd tried to stand in
the suburbs, and the Americans' air power had nailed them. Some had
retreated into central Hannover, and dug into building as basements,
and the US and Britain had to go house-to-house to clear them out. 
Casualties had been low by WWII standards, but high for the US.
Now, the US 49th Infantry Division (New York National Guard) was
moving up on Leipzig, and it looked like it was going to be awful. 
The better part of five German divisions were dug in, and either they
got some advice (somehow) from the Germans who'd defended Hannover, or
the guy in charge was just a smart cookie. The Germans were dug into
an urban environment with multiple lines of self-supporting and
mutually overlapping positions, and they still had artillery. US
reluctance to use mass munitions against urban areas was doctrine
(much to the astonishment, befuddlement, and later anger of the
British, who had no such qualms themselves), and, despite the
casualties, one that Oakley agreed with.
Still, this was going to be hard. The Germans had no real way
of stopping US armor, and helicopter gunships drove them bonkers. But
they learned quickly. Apaches were generally too heavily armored for
German hand weapons. But the 88s - those famous AA weapons the
Germans had used so effectively as anti-tank weapons in the original
history - well, those made mincemeat even of Apaches, and the Germans
were learning to hoard them - to let the helicopters make an initial
pass - and then take them out to use against follow up attacks. Of
course, aiming an 88 at helicopter wasn't easy, and the Americans
tended to blow them up after they fired, but, with an experienced
crew, and a good position, they could (and did) do damage.
Despite all of this, the US was going to win. For all of their
vaunted militarism, the US troops were better soldiers than the
Germans on a man-for-man level. US training had no parallel, and the
Germans also couldn't match US equipment. Body armor was effective
against German small arms, and the US night-fighting capability was
light-years ahead of anything the Germans had. Additionally, the
Germans were having issues controlling their troops. No one wanted to
be the last casualty in a war, and many Germans - even veterans - who
saw US equipment in action had figured out how this would turn out.
Not the bunch in Leipzig, however, which is why Oakley was
here, doing recon. Oh, the US had satellite imagery, air photos, and
the new, unmanned predator drones in abundance, which gave everyone a
pretty good idea of what the Germans had here. But the battalion
commander was a bit old fashioned, and, when it came right down to it,
trusted the Mark I eyeball more than a satellite. More to the point,
he trusted Oakley, and wanted his opinion of what he saw. Oakley
sighed, and as the German barrage ended, belly-crawled off the berm,
and then walked back to the battalion HQ to give his report.
When he got there, he was astonished to see them packing up. 
The battalion commander had a tight grin on his. He had good news,
and bad news. The good news was that someone in Washington had wised
up, and realized that hitting every fortified Festung in Germany was
just plain dumb. There was no reason to, so the attack on Leipzig had
been cancelled. Instead, the British and some US armored cav would
seal the city up while most of the US Army moved on.
Oakley wanted to know where. The battalion commander said that
was the bad news. President Bush wanted the war over. So the
division, along with several others, had a new target. It was felt
one last assault would convince the Germans to throw in the towel. So
they were going for the grand-slam homer of them all. They were
going east.
To Berlin
==USA ISOT 2002 to 1942 – Part the Last "The Postdam Conferences…"==
===Part A. Uniting Against the Other===
Berlin, March 1943 (March, 2003)
Heinz Guderian drew his heavy greatcoat about him as he hurried down
the street. A desultory, icy rain dribbled out of a grey sky onto
Berlin's equally grey rubble, coating Guderian and the other few
people out and about with a cold miasma of wetness. Guderian coughed
a bit, hunched over like an old man. He had not weathered the winter
well, after his capture, despite the relatively comfortable prison the
Americans had held him in.
A loud motor roared overhead, and Guderian looked up to see a
helicopter – he believed it to be of a type called ‘Blackhawk' by the
Americans – as it flew southwest. Presumably, it was carrying
attendees for the "Potsdam Conference" the Americans were hosting to
decide the fate of –
Of well, everything. The final surrender of the Third Reich on
January 1, 1943 coincided with Japan's decision to "end" their war –
the US-educated emperor and 2002 Japanese embassy staff (coupled with
US Special Forces operations that targeted the most die-hard of the
Japanese militarists) – proving sufficient to the cause.
Adolf Hitler was dead; if you believed the surviving members of the
bunker, he'd died fighting off the Americans until the last minute; if
you believed "CNN", he was shot by his own SS guards right before US
Delta Force operatives stormed the place. Guderian knew what he
believed; the Americans would have loved to put the man on trial with
the other Nazis at Nuremberg, and the SS (acting under orders from
Bormann or some other flunky) never would have allowed it.
The rubble was still piled high. The Battle of Berlin had proven to
be the most costly battle in terms of lives for the Americans – over
2,000 combat fatalities. Of course, of the 1.5 million defenders,
there was no accurate total on deaths. Suffice to say that number had
been in the hundreds of thousands. When initial American armored
probes into the city had been roughly handled, the US had backed off,
and sent in the USAF. B-52s, A-10s, F/A-18s, F-15s, F-16s, B-1B, B-2
Stealth; these were the litany of names that spelled death for Berlin
and the Nazis. And, after the idiocy of THULE, it was only strong
American pressure that kept Churchill from gassing the city.
Guderian arrived at his destination; a small dark door in a ruined
apartment block; no different than a thousand other blocks in ruined
Berlin. He knocked once, feeling the cold of the door even through
his glove. After a moment, the door opened, revealing a man dressed
in the latest Berlin fashion; filthy clothes. The man eyed Guderian,
and then beckoned with one hand. Guderian entered, and the man
glanced furtively down the length of the street before firmly shutting
and barring the door.
"You're late, General." The man said, picking up a lit candle, and
leading Guderian into the freezing gloom of the building.
A ghost of a smile touched Guderian's lips. "You are mistaken. The
name is simply Herr Guderian. There is no German Army any more, and
therefore, I could hardly be a General, could I?" Guderian laughed
briefly at his own joke. "As for the lateness, well, I apologize; the
Americans keep an eye on me now."
The man grunted, and continued to another door. This one led to a
stairway down, which Guderian followed to another door. The guide
knocked again, and a tiny hatch in the door opened. A pair of cold
blue eyes regarded both the guide and Guderian, before it closed, and
the door opened. The guide gestured again, and Guderian entered the
room.
A single naked bulb lit the interior – a former basement storeroom. 
A rough wooden table and several chairs were in the room, along with
several men Guderian knew, if only by reputation. His eyes widened in
shock.
Guderian had been captured several months ago, and held in Hamburg,
after that city's fall. His American captors had treated him well
enough, but had been closed-mouthed about his eventual fate. They had
shared the original history with him, and he had read of the Nuremberg
War Crimes Tribunals set up in 1946. Now, the Americans had
reconvened it, and Guderian had been able to help it but to wonder if
he was slated for his own trial. However, two weeks ago, the
Americans had moved him to Berlin. Rather than a prison, they had put
him (with several other captured German civil and military
authorities) into a converted hotel. His daily movements were
unhindered, but he was told to be in the hotel by nightfall.
Yesterday, Guderian had gotten an odd message via a close-mouthed
hotel steward; a meeting at a certain location in Berlin at a certain
time, and his presence was requested. Guderian hadn't thought long;
he'd decided to attend it. There was always the chance that it was
some form of assassination attempt, but Guderian doubted it; besides
he was bored.
Now, Guderian faced several men in uniform. He recognized Bernard
Montgomery of Great Britain and General LeClerc of the French Army,
and knew General Crerar of the Canadian Army personally. He had never
met Marshall Koniev of the USSR or General Badgolio of Italy. 
Additionally, he saw several others – presumably translators.
Guderian stood for a second looking at the various men in the room. 
He hadn't known what to expect, and this certainly wasn't it. He
managed, however, to sound fairly composed. "Good afternoon,
Gentlemen. What can I do for you?"
Monty indicated a chair, and Guderian sat. All the military men did,
with translators close at hand. Guderian eyed all of the men. Koniev
and Monty glared with open hostility - at Guderian and each other -
while LeClerc and the Italian regarded Guderian with wariness. 
Guderian could not imagine for the life of him what they were all
doing here together.
Koniev opened the conversation. "Are we secure here? Can the damned
Americans hear us?" The Soviet Marshall addressed the Canadian,
Crerar.
Crerar shrugged. "I don't think they can hear us. My men swept the
whole building and found nothing."
Monty chimed in. "Their listening devices are devilish, and tiny. 
How can we be sure?"
Crerar shrugged again. "The man in charge of my team spent some time
at the Americans' CIA headquarters in Langley. He did get a chance to
view some of their – ‘Bugs' – they're called. He knows as well as
anyone from this time what they look like." Another shrug. "Besides,
the Americans haven't bugged the whole city, and they have had no
reason to come here. The rubble will muffle our sound, and no one
knows we're here."
LeClerc looked sour, but nodded at Crerar. "I think he's right. Our
best defence is that the Americans have no reason to suspect that we
are all here."
Guderian spoke. "And why gentlemen, are you here? More to the
point, why are any of us here?"
Monty looked at the German general, distaste in his eyes. "Because
of you, General. The Americans won't let you leave Berlin, and all of
us are here for the Potsdam Conference anyway, so this was the time
our governments decided that we should be here."
Stranger and stranger, thought Guderian, their governments are
sponsoring this little chat. Very strange, given the US troops
massing on the Soviet border, and that Canadian and British troops
were massing with them. There was every possibility that Koniev would
soon find himself at war with Montgomery and Crerar.
"Me?" asked Guderian. "Why me? I'm not even a general anymore. 
Besides, I believe that the Americans have a slot reserved for me in
Nuremberg-"
"They don't." Crerar cut off Guderian. "Actually, the Americans do
have plans for you – but they aren't to put you in jail."
Guderian felt a wave of relief flow through him. He was careful not
to let it show. "Oh?"
"Actually, General, they have an offer to make you at the end of this
month." Montgomery spoke. He nodded at Crerar. "General Crerar and
I are privy to their plans. They intend to reconstitute a small
German Army, and plan to ask you to be in charge of it."
Guderian felt surprise again, and it showed. LeClerc smiled
humorlessly at him. "Yes, General. You. Apparently, in the original
history, you were in charge of the German Army in 1945, and had the
good sense to be sacked by Hitler, thus making you a ‘good guy' in
American eyes. Additionally, sir, you enjoy a reputation as a fine
field commander with the US military, so the Americans feel confident
you'll do here as well, in charge of what they're planning to call the
Bundeswehr. It will be quite limited in scope; from what we hear no
more than six divisions, but an army none the less."
Guderian felt a surge of different emotions run through him; relief,
pride, excitement, anticipation, and finally a bit of disappointment
at the Versailles-like limitation of the German Army. "I – I thank
you for sharing that with me, sir. But I still fail to see what it is
we are doing here."
Montgomery stood, and placed his hands behind his back. He paced for
a minute, and then looked at Guderian. "You have an advantage, sir,
that none of us do. Two of them, actually."
Guderian did not respond.
"You see, " Montgomery continued, "this new United States represents,
well, something no one else in the world is quite prepared to deal
with."
Guderian snorted. "Certainly I understand that. And I would point
out, I understand that as the target of this new United States,
something no one else here has been." Guderian didn't count the
Italian, Badgolio, or even look at him. Certainly Italy had not
suffered as Germany had.
"Yes, quite." Said Montgomery. "Yet, it seems that all of us share
one thing, General. A reorganization of the world order on terms not
of own making."
Guderian raised an eyebrow.
"Oh yes, " broke in LeClerc, "they certainly talk a good game. But
in the end, they have both carrots and the sticks, as it were. They
have technology beyond our dreams, and wealth to support it. Their
ideas are – are well, Alien, almost." LeClerc reached into a pouch,
and brought out a folded map. He spread it out on the table, and
Guderian recognized enough of the English on it to read the year –
2001 – and realize that it was from the future. Guderian's eyes
lingered over it; noting the truncation of Germany, and the break-up of
the USSR. "Look at this, " LeClerc continued, "the parts I've marked
in blue are the French Empire in 2001 – the parts in red, the
British". Guderian stared for a moment. These empires were gone;
only tiny bits around the world were left.
Montgomery spoke quietly. "This is the world they came from. A world they dominated already as a ‘hyperpower'. This world-" he waved a hand at the room and Berlin beyond – "they will not simply dominate
– they will own." The British general snorted. "They will not call
it ownership of course. They are very clear about that; they will not
expand the territory of the United States by even one square inch. 
But that doesn't matter. Their culture, their technology, and their
businesses – they will rule. The next generation – wherever and to whomever they are born – will be American."
"The attitude they have displayed most of all, General, is a kind of
condescending paternalism, with a dash of disapproval thrown in for
good measure. They are very polite – friendly even - and open about
their technology. But when it comes to sharing their marvellous
weapons, they have proven most reticent." Montgomery shrugged. "They
have an absolute monopoly on modern military equipment, and they show
no signs of sharing it any time soon."
The military disasters that had befallen Germany before the fall of
Berlin, and his personal fate afterwards, had dominated Guderian's
thoughts. He hadn't really considered the longer-term implications of
the arrival of the future United States. He knew their technology was
impressive, and, had come to realize that they had been supreme in the
world they came from. To hear them speak, Britain, France, and
Germany were allies – some might even say partners, albeit junior ones
– in an alliance called NATO. Russia was shattered – a dead empire of
declining population and importance. Japan was an economic
powerhouse, but a military pygmy, firmly subordinated to Washington.
Crerar spoke. "So that is what we face. The break-up of the European
empires, the universal rights of all people, regardless of race or
culture " LeClerc snorted at this, his eyes locked on Algeria on the
map. "and finally capitalism ruled from New York and Washington."
Guderian thought of shattered Germany. "I frankly don't see how this
impacts me or Germany. Or what you can do about it right now."
"Nothing. We can do nothing about this." LeClerc gave a Gallic
shrug. "They have power, we have none. We must go along with them." 
He stared off at a point over the table. "For now."
Montgomery looked at the German. "You remember, Herr General, I
said you had two advantages over the rest of us?" Guderian nodded. 
"Well, here's what they are. First, unlike all of us, your country
will have a large American military presence for quite some time to
come."
"I fail to see that as an advantage." said Guderian.
LeClerc smiled humorlessly. "But of course it is, General. Unlike
Germany's occupation of my country, the Americans do not intend to
loot Germany; primarily because you have nothing at all they would
want. No, they will secure the country, use it as a base to keep an
eye on Europe and the Middle East, eradicate the remains of the Nazi
government, and, with our help, establish a new government for
Germany."
Guderian's brow furrowed. "I thought this conference meant you were
their enemies now."
There was laughter, and then Montgomery spoke. "Only an idiot would
make themselves the Americans' enemy, General. No, we are not their
enemies. Merely – concerned – I would say, yes concerned about the
future. In no way would we oppose them openly."
"No general, not enemies. But back to that occupation. The
Americans intend to rebuild your country. Part of this is simply
sympathy on their parts, and that is how they portray it to their
press. However, a much more concrete reason is that the Americans
need a market for their goods, and a strong German – and European –
economy is the quickest way to that.
"No, General Guderian, we are not their enemies. However, the first
advantage of which spoke is this: The Americans intend to rebuild
Germany's Army from their own obsolete equipment. Older weapons and
vehicles removed their National Guard arsenals and such."
Guderian was silent for a moment while this sank in. "Surely they
will not give us anything that is dangerous to them-"
Montgomery was shaking his head. "Of course not, General. The
equipment you get is completely obsolete in their eyes – weapons and
vehicles scrounged from the bottoms of their arsenals from the 1960s
and 1970s, meant as a stop-gap while Germany's own industries recover. Completely obsolete to them."
"Decades ahead of what we have." Said LeClerc softly.
Guderian stared. "Surely they are planning to equip you, their allies with similar technology-"
"No." said Crerar. The Canadian shrugged. "They say that there's
no need; that war in the future will be eliminated or non-existent. 
They recommend that we simply disband our militaries to invest in
upgrading our civilian economies. Needless to say, our elected
civilian leadership is happy with this, as are most people."
Koniev spoke. "Simply put, General, no matter what they give, you
won't be allowed to use it aggressively; firstly the German government
that the Americans are putting into place won't be like the Nazis at
all; secondly, they will maintain their own military to crush anything
you attempt."
"So, if I understand you gentlemen, Germany will have a small army
equipped by Americans capable of defeating any 1943 opponent, but not
allowed to do anything with it."
Nods all around. "And this were you come in, general." Said
Montgomery. "The two advantages; US military occupation of Germany,
and then a US-equipped German army will provide you with access to far
more military equipment than we. We want you to share that with us."
"I'm sorry?"
"We want you to actively and secretly share advanced American technology with us."
Guderian was silent for a moment. "And even if I could, why should I?" He stared at Koniev.
Crerar spoke. "You are of course familiar with the conference going
on down the way in Potsdam?" Guderian nodded, and the Canadian
continued. "The Americans are deciding, among other things, they face
of the new Europe. National boundaries, ethnic movements, and the
like. While the Americans are deciding these issues, it is odd that
they don't actually have much of a stake in them."
Guderian raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, to be sure, the Americans have their own domestic reasons to
care; ethnic voting blocs and the like." Montgomery said. "However,
in the end, no one domestic group can influence the Americans to the
extent that we can. Quite simply, the American State Department is
out of its time. It has no local experts, and their man in charge,
Mr. Powell, is relying on us to help dictate the terms of this new
Europe."
Understanding dawned on Guderian. "I see. And in return for my
agreement to this proposal, you will present a case favorable to
Germany?"
"Precisely."
Guderian furrowed his brow. "And why are there no diplomats here
now? Why are soldiers doing this?"
Koniev spoke. "A new and wonderful term our American friends have
taught us – plausible deniability. If this blows up on us – if the
Americans find out, then our governments just shrug, fire us, and say
‘we didn't know'".
Guderian frowned again. "I see." Guderian tried to buy time to
think. "Even if I were so inclined to accept, eventually I will have
to answer to a civilian authority."
Crerar spoke, "A difficult position, yes." The Canadian stood. 
"However, I would think that the prospect of a Germany whose Eastern
border was not on the Oder would be sufficient."
Guderian stared at the Canadian. He knew the strings to pull to get
to Guderian. Then Koniev came into view, and Guderian's back
stiffened. "I'm very sorry, gentlemen, but I can not view sharing
advanced military equipment with Stalin. He is a lunatic as bad as
Hitler, and-"
Koniev burst out laughing. "Oh, my dear General Guderian, Comrade
Stalin does not know that I am here."
Guderian looked confused. "I thought that you said that the governments-"
Montgomery gave an uncomfortable-sounding cough. "Marshall Koniev is
attending this conference at the behest of certain – elements – of the
Soviet government. Chairman Stalin is not aware that he is here."
Guderian's eyes widened a bit.
Montgomery continued. "As a matter of fact, General, we have reason
to believe that the Soviet Government may soon undergo a bit of an
evolution."
Koniev broke in. "You see, General, I watched the Americans' war
from Harwich, and I assure you that no sane man would defy them. 
Comrade Stalin seems bent on a course of defiance, and the safety of
the revolution dictates that adjustments be made."
Guderian stared at Koniev, but addressed Montgomery. "I see. What,
precisely, are you prepared to offer?"
===Part B. Leadership changes.===
Potsdam, March, 1943 (2003).
	Colin Powell was surprised at how well things were going. The
squabbling was to be expected of course, but the rough outline of
post-war Europe was emerging. The only real non-Soviet sticking point
was Poland. Powell was amazed at how – well, nice – to Germany the
French, British and Italians were being. The Poles were, predictably,
outraged at the idea of German retention of Silesia, and Powell didn't
know why their former allies, the British, were being so favorable to
Berlin.
The truth of the matter was, however, that Powell had little
attention for Poland. The Soviets were being completely intransigent,
and war was clearly brewing between the US-led allies, and the Soviet Union.
The conference room was large, ornate and filled with delegates,
availing themselves of the refreshments the US security detachment
provided. There was quite a bit of milling about because, as usual,
the Soviet delegation was late. Powell didn't know if it was
grandstanding, simple stubbornness, or to try to convince others here
that the Soviets were a viable military power to compete with the
Americans. If so, it wasn't working. Not one country sided with Moscow.
Powell was distressed at the absence of any Asian delegates. Asia
was a mess into itself, and a conference in Honolulu was planned for
July. It seemed the Chinese embassies – both of them – were up to
something, and Powell could only hope the CIA could keep a lid on it
while the US moved to stabilize Japan. Additionally, the hopes and
aspirations of Vietnam, Indonesia, and India were taking center stage
as 2002 citizens of those countries viewed the Imperial masters
through the lens of the 21st century.
Powell turned as a commotion arose behind him. General Buchanan, his
military liaison was speaking into a sat phone with tones that
indicated something was up. Buchanan looked up and said one word –
"Moscow" – quietly. Before Powell could inquire further, the door to
conference room opened, and the Soviet delegation entered. Something
in their manner made Powell look up.
Rather than moving to his seat, Molotov walked over to Powell
directly. A translator appeared with him. Powell looked at the
Soviet Foreign Minister.
Molotov cleared his throat. "I must ask for an indulgence sir."
"Oh?"
"Yes. I must request a temporary recess. It seems that there has
been some trouble in Moscow."
Powell frowned. "What kind of trouble?"
Molotov looked uncomfortable. "It seems that certain counter-revolutionary elements of the Soviet internal security services attempted a coup against the Center."
Powell raised both eyebrows.
Molotov continued. "The conspirators were of course defeated, but I regret to say that they wreaked considerable havoc." A deep sigh. "I must regretfully report that Chairman Stalin was killed in the confusion."
It got very quiet in the American delegation. "I see," said Powell.
"I am in a difficult position sir, " Molotov continued, "and must ask for a recess to consult the new leadership of my country."
"And who is in charge of the USSR?"
"General Georgi Zhukov has assumed the chair position until the
Politburo can convene."
"I see." Said Powell. "And you expect this will impact Soviet
positions on the issues we are discussing?"
"Yes."
Powell sighed. So even the Soviets were going to come on board.
===Part C: Skip, the alien space bat===
Washington DC, April 1943 (April, 2003).
President Bush was in an upbeat mood as he entered the Oval Office
with Colin Powell. The Potsdam Conference was over, Stalin was dead,
and the economy was turning around. The strategic situation was
stabilizing-
Bush froze mid-stride at the sight of a monster behind his desk. It
was a huge bat-like beast, vaguely man-shaped, but with
leathery-looking black wings, and a demonic face. Glowing red eyes
regarded the US President from beneath a bony brow, and two horns at
least a foot long each sprang from the beast's forehead. It must have
been 9 feet tall, and had somehow managed to fit itself – and look
completely at ease while doing it – in Bush's chair, behind his desk,
with clawed talons/feet up and resting on the blotter on the desk.
A secret service agent caught sight of the beast, and drew a gun
while trying to leap to cover Bush. He froze – literally stopped all
movement – and hung suspended in mid-leap, in mid air. The agent's
eyes darted furiously as his brain to process the impossibility of
being suspended motionless in midair.
"Good Afternoon, Mr. President," the being spoke. His voice was
surprisingly mellow for such a huge and monstrous-looking being. 
Later voice analysis by the NSA would suggest a lifetime spent in
Southern California.
Bush managed a croak. Both he and Powell were also immobile, though Bush could at least speak.
"What's the matter sir, cat got your tongue?" The being asked.
"Who – who are you?
The being stood, and moved around to the front of the desk. He
smiled – a truly horrible sight – and spoke again. "My own name for
myself, you would find impossible to pronounce. However, for the
duration of this discussion, you may call me ‘Skip'."
"Skip?!?"
Skip shrugged massive shoulders. "It'll do for now. Besides, my agent loves it."
Bush was trying to process what was happening, so Powell spoke. "Who
are you, Mr. Skip, and what do you want?"
Skip looked at the US SecState. "Just Skip, no ‘mister' needed. 
Well, let's get the obvious out of the way. I'm an alien. As in, not
from this planet."
"Why can't we move, and how did you get in here?" Bush had found his voice.
Skip stared at the US President. "Well, gosh, I would have thought
the whole ‘Alien' thing would have given you a clue that ‘hey, maybe
this guy Skip, in addition to his stunning good looks and suave sense
of style, has command of some technologies that we don't'"
Neither man spoke.
Skip placed his clawed hands behind his back, and wings, and sighed
deeply. "OK, clearly I have to make this simpler. First of all,
despite that fact that you can't move, and no one else will be coming
in here until I leave, all of the recording devices that monitor this
room, both visual and audio, are picking everything up. I figured
Powell would be enough to verify this little chat we're having, but
that should help. Secondly, I guess you've noticed the little
temporal displacement that took place a year or so ago?"
Bush stared blankly. "Huh?"
Skip closed his eyes and counted backwards from ten. "The US being
back in the 1940's – you recognized that?"
"Yes".
"Well, I represent the organization that was responsible for that act."
Powell's face bulged with fury. "Do you have any idea of the damage
you've done, the lives you've shattered, the-"
Powell's voice shut off, and Skip waved one massive hand. "Gee, like
I care. Look, I'm acclimated pretty well, but let's not forget the
whole ‘Alien' thing I mentioned earlier. Completely different value
set, OK? Individual human lives don't mean squat to me, or those I
work with, and won't until you've earned it."
"Why? Why did you do this?" Bush asked.
Skip blinked rapidly. "Wow, an intelligent question. And just when
I thought all was lost. Well, that's why I'm here. To explain why. 
And to assure you of something else. This will not happen again. No
more displacements. This is the world, now, and you're here to stay."
The alien blinked. "Or is until you bozos figure out how to do it on
your own, which ain't likely in the near future."
Skip sat down on a couch. He reached behind his back, and pulled out
a cigar. He struck a match against Bush's desk. He puffed several
times on the cigar, and then glanced at his three human visitors. "Do
you mind if I smoke – actually, who cares if you do mind? It's not
like you can stop me."
Skip leaned back, and crossed his legs. He inhaled on his cigar, and
blew a perfect smoke ring. "Ahhh. Nothing beats a Cuban." He
chuckled. "Cute trick with the Israelis down there. That got some
laughs, I gotta tell you. You should let Fidel try out for baseball." He stared at the ceiling for a minute and then spoke.
"OK, clearly we're now past the whole ‘we're not alone in the
universe thing'. I mean, that was arrogant beyond belief. Also, I'm
not two million years old, so clearly FTL – you can as NASA what ‘FTL'
means – is possible, though probably not for you for a while." More
puffing on the cigar. There were no ashtrays in the Oval Office, and,
after glancing around for one for a moment, Skip shrugged and simply
flicked the ashes on to the carpet.
"One of the things we like about your species is your capacity to
dream – fantasize if you like. Now, let's face it, most of the
fantasies that aren't prurient sexual desires are religious
mumbo-jumbo and other superstition, but sometimes something
interesting comes out. Your capacity to believe in a universe beyond
what you can touch, but still governed by rationality. Rare, but there."
Skip looked at them. "The universe, and all species in it are
governed by rational scientific laws, gentlemen. Humanity has
discovered some of these, but many more are out there. It is
believed, by my organization that in due course, Humanity would have
discovered those laws, made use of them, and – well, let's just say
become more than what you are now."
More puffing. "Now, I'm actually going somewhere with all of this
crap, believe me. There are other races out there, as should be
obvious to even you. Some of these have sets of cultural or racial
values that are completely different from your own. One of these
races is local, in a galactic sense of the word. And they know about you."
"This race is, well, if you about them you would say that they are
vile. And hey, they are. They've also targeted you. They're not
overfond of competition, and your rate of scientific and cultural
advance is a whole lot faster than theirs. Additionally, for now at
least, they're more technically advanced. If left alone, we figure
you two would've blundered into each other at some point or another. 
Predictions were that you'd win; believe it or not this other race can
be even more pig-headed than humans; but it would be a tough fight. 
In the end, a war against that race, fought mostly in your solar
system, would've resulted in a politically unified Earth, with
technological development spurred by the conflict."
Bush and Powell still couldn't move, but the shock registered in their eyes.
Skip waved his massive clawed hand, scattering more cigar ash over
the Oval Office. "Probably. Of course, maybe you'd just get your
butts kicked; and these guys put the gen in genocide, if you catch my drift."
Skip scowled; a terrifying sight. "But something went wrong." More
puffing. "Certain – elements – of my organization decided, for a
variety of reasons I'm not gonna go into right now, that this other
species needed a leg up. They utilized this localized time-travel
capability we have to knock these guys back in time; not much, but
enough to make the odds from about 90-10 in your favor to more like
50-50. Part II of their little plan was to make that 50-50 about
10-90 against, but we intercepted that before it happened."
"What was that?" Powell could speak again.
Another dismissive wave from Skip. "Oh, they were gonna send some
lunatic from Tampa – Mike or Mark or something – it started with an
‘M'- back to 1942 instead. This loser is a Nazi sympathizer, and any
disruption there could have been awful. Oh, the Nazis weren't gonna
win, but enough advancement from this idiot, and your economic and
cultural development would have been slowed down. By the time we
caught up with this, the – let's call them entities – in question had
already started the time displacement procedure. We decided to kill
two birds with one stone, and simply equalize the earlier part of
their plan. Viola, you guys get a one-way ticket to 1942."
"Why didn't you simply reverse what had happened to this other species, " asked Powell.
"Yeah, that would have been easier, and more moral, but hey, this was
already paid for, and a lot more fun. I gotta say" - Skip was
chuckling now – "that some of the things that have happened since you
got here have been a hoot. I mean, come on. The whole British Empire
is on the brink of collapse –Leonardo Di Caprio and Kate Winslet. And
who'd ever though the USSR would be brought low by – well, never mind."
Powell was thinking of shattered lives, combat losses, aliens, and rebuilding Europe. "You know, I don't think this has been funny at all. In fact, I think that this whole childish attitude –" Powell's mouth kept moving, but no sound came out.
Skip stood, and waved his arm with a certain airy indifference. "You say Potato, I say Pototo. Look, I've already explained, I don't give a crap." A deep draw on the almost-depleted cigar, and a sigh. "This world is yours, gentlemen. Your particular nation state has the power to do what it will. What you choose to do from now on out is entirely up to you, but I might think that a little unity in the face of a genocidely-inclined enemy to be a spur. We're out now; your destiny is you own."
There was a flash of orange, and a bright light from Skip's eyes. Bush, Powell, and the Secret Service agent all involuntarily closed their eyes, and then they could move. Which was unfortunate, as the agent's flight resumed, and he crashed into Bush. The Oval Office was suddenly flooded with security as Bush and Powell looked around.
Apart from a small scent of brimstone, and a mostly used Cuban cigar burning on the carpet, Skip was gone.
Category:Timelines
Category:ISOT American 2002