"What is this marshland, tovarich?" Skorzeny asked as they rumbled along. "I thought Cambridge was a university, not a swamp."

"This is Cambridgeshire," Philby explained. "Specifically we're in the Ouse Washes, a floodplain between the Old and New Bedford rivers, drained by the Fourth Earl of Bedford in the sixteen-"

"A swamp, then, as I said."

Philby exhaled slowly.

If he ever made it to Moscow, he was going to get a medal for this.

A flight of American planes screamed overhead, wagging their wings just for him.

Biggin Hill was unrecognizable.

Actually, that was untrue. Harry had seen damage like this on many occasions. So many over the years that he'd lost count.

"Hammerhead run," said Sergeant St. Clair as the Eurocopter settled on its wheels.

"Looks like," the prince agreed. "Not well directed, though."

"Well enough, guv."

Harry's face twisted as he allowed the point. There were buildings and hangars standing, untouched, and runways that had been excavated in cross section rather than along their entire length. But the damage was still massive and crippling. Twelve hundred dead, they'd told him on the way in, including two members of Halabi's crew who'd died when their billet, a nearby village inn, had been destroyed by a wayward packet of submunitions.

"Can you refuel, here?" asked Harry as the rotors began to wind down.

The voice of Flight Lieutenant Ashley Hay responded in his earbud. "Our fuel stores weren't touched, Major. We'll top up and get back to Trident ASAP, if you don't mind."

"Okay. Thanks again for your help back there, Ash. Smashing effort."

"Thank you, sir."

His half-troop, minus the casualties Akerman and Bolt, were already unloading kit from the NH91 into a couple of vintage jeeps with.50 cal. mounts for the drive north, where they would meet up with the regiment, which was prepping for a night assault into Aldringham, one of the Suffolk villages still held by the Fallschirmjager.

Harry waved off the chopper, bent over, and hurried to his men in the jeeps. Fires burned all around them, and as he was climbing into the lead vehicle, he noticed a disembodied human thumb lying by the rear wheel.

"Your Highness," said his driver, a whey-faced lad just as Harry had once been.

"None of that, son. Major will do. You know where you're going? You won't get lost?"

"Ipswich, sir, via the city. Done it a hundred times."

"Good lad." Harry clapped him on the back, announcing with faux high humor, "And you shall know us by the trail of our dead."

"Excuse me, Major?" asked the 'temp, who now looked worried.

"Nah, excuse the guvnor," said St. Clair as he stowed his weapon in a gun rack on the dashboard. "He's got a very sad weakness for postpunk allusions, and it comes out when he's under pressure."

The wheels spun on grass, and they leapt away. Harry settled back and hauled out his flexipad, pulling down the latest sit rep from the Trident.

As soon as the unit linked to Fleetnet, a Priority 1 e-mail unfolded itself on screen.

"Trouble, guv?" St. Clair asked.

"Not really," Harry replied. "Good news, actually. The Aldringham job's a blow out. Seems they love their new gunships so much, we're all being pensioned off, and the rest of the war is going to be won by dicing up the krauts with miniguns."

"Fucking corker!" St. Clair grinned. "We still going to London, though?"

"Yep. I've still got to meet the PM for tea and biscuits."

"You'll want to make yourself beautiful, then, guv. You're a right fuckin' sight, you are."

He was, but there was nothing for it but a cat's lick and promise, as grandma used to say. He wondered where she was right now. The firm had decided to stay in London, come what may. He couldn't imagine that some precautions hadn't been taken, however. Then again, last he'd heard, they pitched poor old granddad right into the thick of it in the Channel. Harry had no idea what ship he was on, or whether he'd even made it.

What a fucking mess.

He was going to drink an unhealthy number of lagers when this was all over.

The prince settled back into the seat and caught up with the latest burst.

Halabi had made it through without significant damage, although she was now bereft of any force-projection capability, having fired the last shots in her locker.

The German invasion fleet was piled up on the French side of the Channel, unable to make any headway against the Allied air forces or Royal Navy. The Kriegsmarine had pretty much ceased to function as a blue-water surface fleet, with the destruction of the Tirpitz battle group, although that had been a close-run thing. The Germans had put up a reasonably effective antimissile screen simply by filling the air in front of them with a storm front of shrapnel and high explosives. A bit like the jihadi in his own day, Harry mused.

Flight ops hadn't resumed from Biggin Hill, and probably wouldn't for a few weeks, given the extent of the damage. But the sky was still crowded with aircraft from other airfields. As they drove away from the ruined sector station, Harry stretched his cramped neck muscles by craning his head right back and scanning the dull gray skies. The traffic was all one way, heading out. Whereas a few hours earlier, it had been an unholy mess up there, with incredible numbers of aircraft twisting and turning in massive dogfights, now the skies looked more like a superhighway delivering massed columns of fighters and bombers over the Channel.

"What were they fuckin' thinkin', d'you reckon, guv?" asked St. Clair as Harry read a couple more E-mails, which came in as flash traffic.

"The Nazis? They weren't thinking at all, Viv. That's the problem with leadership cults. They're red hot on getting shit done, once the big man has spoken, but not so good at weighing up whether that shit should have been done in the first place."

He had an e-mail from the War Ministry with details of the briefing he was to attend at Whitehall, before continuing on to Ipswich. And a quick personal note from Churchill, personally thanking him and his men for their efforts at Alresford.

Harry checked his watch. They'd be another hour or two getting there, and probably an hour delayed while he was at the briefing. "Viv," he said, leaning forward, "you and the lads should chase up some hot nosh when we're in the city. It's going to be a while before they get another sit-down feed."

Their driver piped up. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I know a good chippy near Whitehall, if your lads wouldn't mind."

Harry smiled. "How do you think the lads would feel about some fish and chips, Sergeant Major?"

"I suspect they could murder a feed, guv."

"What's your name, son?" asked Harry, shouting over the engine noise and the rush of air.

"Corporal Draper, sir. Peter Draper."

"Well, young Pete. I like the cut of your jib. That's the sort of initiative which built the British Empire. Drop me at the Ministry, and get my boys some hot tucker-my shout."

Harry passed over a ten-pound note.

"And keep the change."

They almost ran off the road. He'd forgotten that Corporal Draper had probably never seen so much money in one place.

Philby maintained a safe house in London that hadn't been discovered following the Transition. A professor of economics at Trinity College, Cambridge, owned it-a man he had recruited as a talent-spotter for the Russians just before the war began.

He was now in the Pacific, working as a Naval attache in Melbourne, and Philby presumed upon their relationship to borrow the house as a hideout. Built in the 1700s, it had a coach house around the rear, large enough to conceal the truck they had stolen; London was in such a state of upheaval, with the streets full of military vehicles, the emergency services, and commandeered civilian transport, that one wayward truck was unlikely to arouse much suspicion, if they moved quickly.