"But Hitler doesn't have it all his own way. I don't believe he can cross the Channel in the face of your air and naval forces. And from what we can gather, he and Stalin have agreed to a cease-fire, not an alliance. We're not facing two enemies. In fact, it's most likely that Stalin is using the breather to build his forces up for an assault into Western Europe."
Halifax pursed his lips, showing his annoyance. "And how, exactly, is that reassuring? Do you imagine that exchanging one tyranny for another is any sort of comfort?" He turned to face Roosevelt. "The British Isles remains the keystone, Mr. President. For the foreseeable future, American security is ultimately to be found in Europe, and you cannot secure Europe without first securing Great Britain.
"I understand the temptation to avoid every crisis and entanglement that might just befall you over the next hundred years. Nobody wants to see their mistakes repeated before they even happen. But the next six months might render all of that null and void. If Hitler controls Britain, you will be trapped inside your continental fortress, forever… or at least until he develops a missile capable of reaching you. You know he's mad enough to start an atomic war. He's most likely planning one against Russia, before he even completes his first bomb."
Roosevelt regarded the ambassador, then considered the faces of his joint chiefs, King, Arnold, and General George C. Marshall. Each man wore the same gloomy expression. It had been an increasingly common sight in Washington, ever since Stalin had pulled out of the war and the Japanese had turned away from China to launch what looked increasingly like a strategic kamikaze raid into the South Pacific.
The president realized he was playing with an imaginary cigarette, and he was irritated with himself for showing the weakness. The subdermal patches had ended his addiction to nicotine, but they could not eradicate the habits of a lifetime.
"General Marshall," he said to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. "The ambassador is essentially correct. Hitler is going to invade, or try to anyway, and he's going to do it very soon. He's building up forces just like he did after Dunkirk. He's moved two entire army groups from Russia into France. He's stopped bombing the cities and returned to attacking airfields. We have to assume, given his rapprochement with Moscow, that he is going to receive some sort of help from them, although God only knows what. And if he takes the British Isles, we may find it impossible to take them back.
"I need to know what we can do about it. We are looking at a new Dark Age, General. If these maniacs do develop atomic bombs, we may even be looking at the end of the world."
Marshall shifted uncomfortably in his chair, then spoke. "We've just sent the First Marine and the Americal Division down to MacArthur in Australia, Mr. President. They should have been on Guadalcanal by now, but after Midway we didn't have the Fleet assets to contest the island, and the Japs took it when they swarmed south out of China. It will be months before any more of our divisions come online. Even with the revised training techniques coming out of California-"
Roosevelt noticed that all three of his military advisers glanced awkwardly at the floor at mention of California.
"-we just can't push them any further."
"Can we move some of the trainees to the British Isles, to continue their training there, just as the Canadians have done?"
Marshall didn't look happy at the suggestion. "We could, sir. But in the event of an invasion, you would have unprepared troops fighting battle-hardened Nazis."
The comment hung in the air, unaddressed, for an uncomfortably long time. Roosevelt stared at the painting of George Washington that hung on his office wall. The first American president had also led poorly prepared forces against a formidable enemy. Ironically, that enemy now sat across from him, pleading for help.
"Nevertheless, please do it, General," he said at last. "If a nation of shopkeepers can stand against the Nazis, I don't see why our armed forces can't do the same. Prepare for the redeployment."
The office was immaculate, as always. Unlike many of the other seats of power in Washington, it did not boast any newfangled technology, such as computating machines or flexible pads.
Director Hoover had certainly secured a goodly number of those for the Bureau, to be certain, but they were located elsewhere, in the Records Department, in the laboratories, and in Assistant Director Tolson's office. Hoover liked to boast that steely nerve, a good aim, and unquestionable moral rectitude were still the primary weapons of any FBI agent. These new gizmos were really just better filing cabinets, and he, for one, didn't need them cluttering up his desk. He was perfectly capable of running the best counterintelligence service in the world without having to rely on some electronic brain.
When he used that line with the press, as he had at least six times this week, he always managed to put such a mocking emphasis on the last phrase that he never failed to gain an appreciative laugh from his audience of Bureau-approved reporters.
There was no laughter in the director's office this morning, however. Indeed, J. Edgar Hoover was incandescent with rage. His double-breasted suit squeezed around him like a straitjacket. Sweat prickled in his hair and ran down his neck. It hurt to breathe, and it was all he could do to stop himself from taking the sheaf of paper he was holding, ripping it into tiny little bits, and throwing them back in the face of the trembling agent who stood in front of him.
Normally, Hoover spoke in a high-pitched, rapid-fire staccato. It could be hundreds of words a minute when he was particularly upset. However, he'd sat white and shaking and utterly silent for ten minutes while he read the agent's summary report, over and over again. Sometimes, when he reached an especially odious passage, he was tempted to skim, but he forced himself to read those parts twice.
When he was finished, he put the paper down and said nothing. His small mouth puckered once or twice, but mostly his lips remained pressed tightly together. Assistant Director Tolson sat nearby and stared at the carpet. Agent Clayton, the bearer of bad news, waited for the hammer to fall.
"Despicable, filthy, gutter talk," Hoover managed to squeak out at last.
Clayton's mouth worked like that of a fish that had been snatched out of its bowl.
"I'm sorry, sir," was all he could say.
"Filthy!" Hoover roared now. "Get out of my office, and never set foot in this building again."
Clayton gaped and blubbed some more, but finally he had no choice but to bow and exit at high speed, with the director's red-rimmed eyes boring into his back as he fled.
"Is it as bad as people have been saying?" Tolson asked when the other man was gone.
Hoover turned on him like a spitting cobra, but as Tolson flinched, the director got a hold of his temper. It wasn't Clyde's fault, after all. As best anyone could tell, it was some egghead named Pope who was ultimately responsible, and he was dead. Hoover had briefly contemplated assigning a team of agents to track down this Pope fellow's parents or grandparents, just to ensure they never met, but he'd been told such efforts would be futile. This accursed time travel didn't work like that. Even if Pope was never born, it wouldn't return any semblance of sanity or balance to the world.
No, he was stuck with things the way they were, with a colony of perverts and half-castes spreading the most terrible lies about him, and poisoning America with their toxic philosophies and practices.
He again read the first page of Clayton's report, gripping the papers so tightly, his hands were trembling. Twenty-two subversive bookstores had been caught stocking copies of these awful books about him. They were cheap, pulpy copies, and there was no publisher's imprint on the spine, but the booksellers were all known Communists or fellow travelers, so there was no doubt the reds were behind it. He could hardly bring himself to look at Clayton's description of the latest "biography" that had surfaced out of California. American Tyrant by this so-called Professor Forstchen. A dime-store novelist of some sort, according to Special Agent Clayton. A purveyor of filth and fiction, even when he was writing alleged history like American Tyrant: The Biography of J. Edgar Hoover.