London Bridge is Down (AMW Only)

[The Reborn British Empire]

All over the United Kingdom the same phrase was being repeated across the British Government and Armed Forces. Anyone who heard the phrase invariably stopped what they were doing and looked around them as they absorbed the information. The phrase spread slowly but surely, in a pre-arranged pattern that was designed to get the information to the people that needed to know without it getting out to the general public too soon. It was a phrase that many felt like a sucker punch as much as a hammerblow; a phrase that changed the world.

The phrase:

London Bridge is Down

HMS Fife
Victoria Harbour, Hong Kong
Thursday 15th March 2018, 1500hrs Local Time

Although India had, once, been considered the jewel in the crown of the British Empire, that title was now firmly held by the Crown Colony of Hong Kong. As a centre of trade and an international financial market, in the form of the Hong Kong Stock Exchange, the territory was the home to one of the largest collections of corporate headquarters in the Asia-Pacific region, and, along with Singapore, was a lynchpin of trade and British influence in the region. Indeed, Hong Kong was in many respects the one thing that was keeping the British Empire relevant, the political impasse that had dominated British politics for the last several decades had precluded any renaissance in British fortunes. The liberals opposed Imperial adventurism, the conservatives were all for it, but the deadlock had meant that there would be no momentum in either direction. Moreover, building and maintaining an Empire required the enthusiastic support of the populous, and the simple fact of the matter was that no one had inspired that kind of support; not a Prime Minister, not a Leader of the Opposition, not even the King, George VIII who, despite being beloved by his people, was old and did not have the energy for that sort of thing anymore.

Laying at anchor in Victoria Harbour was His Majesty’s Ship Fife, a Type-23 Frigate forward-deployed to Hong Kong as part of the Far East Fleet’s China Station. Tasked with protecting Hong Kong, and guarding the sea lines of communication and trade that flowed from the colony to Singapore, and beyond. At the moment the Fife was serving as the military guard ship for Victoria Harbour, responsible for protecting both the vast numbers of civilian ships and the rest of the ships of the China Station that were alongside and not at sea. The Fife was under the command of Commander William Wales. Although, outside of the British Armed Forces, Commander Wales was known by another name:

His Royal Highness The Prince of Wales.

The eldest son of the King, William had been determined to have a full naval career, and a compromise had been struck behind the scenes to enable that. William’s early career had been much like any other naval officer, but as he grew older and had to gain experience and grow into his Royal duties as well he had begun to be rotated between ships at sea and desk jobs in London, to allow him to conduct other duties on behalf of his father, the King. This had slowed his progression down somewhat, despite’s family name, but it had been worth it in the end. As his father had begun to suffer from health issues over the past few years, William had known that his career was coming to an end and had requested command of a ship a sea, for this would likely be his last opportunity. Undoubtedly a concession his status, although few could argue that he had earned it, he had been given command of the Fife and posted to the Far East Fleet; coincidently where he could raise his own profile amongst the Crown Colonies which would useful when he became King.

William was known, by those close to him, to be a strong personal believer in the British Empire and restoring it to its former glory. The traditions of the Empire had been instilled on him at Eton and Cambridge, having been an avid student of history, and his service in the Royal Navy, seeing the Empire, both the handful of enclaves that remained and parts that had gained their independence, for better or worse, had imbued in him a desire to reverse the decline. Although there were some areas of the former British Empire that had flourished on their own, many others simply hadn’t and were in dire need of reduction; something that William passionately believed that the British could provide. He knew that he was not the only person who thought that, and he knew that as King he could help shape the national discussion, but with the political deadlock at the moment it was unlikely that anything would change. What he wouldn’t give to be able to simply appoint a Prime Minister, but to do so he would have to be certain that the people would vote to support his choice, otherwise the constitutional crisis he would call could bring down the Monarchy, but at the moment both the leaders of the two main parties were dull, uninspiring career politicians; not the sort of men that he would risk the future of an institution upon, besides he wasn’t even King yet.

On the afternoon of the Fifteenth of March, William was returning to the Fife via helicopter having been meeting with the Governor of Hong Kong to discuss the security arrangements for the Hong Kong Regatta, for which he was the afloat commander. The Officer of the Watch had ordered a side party to the flight deck to welcome the Captain back aboard, and it was there that Lieutenant Commander Charles Holt, the Executive Officer, was stood waiting with a grim expression, a print-out of a fleet signal in his hand. William stopped short as he saw his XO, not expecting him to have met him immediately on his return, his frown growing as he examined the expression on the younger officer’s face.

“What is wrong, Charles?”

“Signal from the Admiralty, Sir,” Lt. Commander Holt said grimly, handing over the signal. “London Bridge is Down.”

William did not respond; his face paled as the blood rushed from his face, holding the signal limply in his right hand. As he looked down he could see that his hands were trembling and sure enough those fateful words were clear as day.

150900ZMAR18
MOST IMMEDIATE
FROM: ADMIRALTY

TO: CO, Fife

BEGIN

LONDON BRIDGE IS DOWN

END

The document dropped from his hands as he stepped away from Lt. Commander Holt without a word, making his way along the starboard side of his ship, ignoring the salutes and words of the crewmen that he passed on his way forward to the bows. Flying from the jackstaff at the front of the ship was the Union Jack, the symbol of Britain, and her Empire, all over the world. It would have to be joined, from the yardarm, by the Royal Standard, William thought numbly as he felt his eyes sting as he fought back tears. He knew that he could not allow his grief to show too much; not only was he this ships commanding officer, for a short time now at least, but he was also their King now. Despite the deep well of grief that he could feel, William knew that he had to do his duty; the duty that his father had spent fifty years preparing him for.

The new King’s dark thoughts were disrupted by a distinctive ringing from his pocket. Pulling out his phone, which externally resembled an iPhone X but was internally heavily modified and secured by GCHQ, and looked at the call identifier; there were only a handful of people that had this number after all. Sure enough it was the only person that William could have imagined ringing him before his wife; his childhood friend and former comrade, Sebastian Lawrence, currently serving as Shadow Secretary of State for Defence. Thumbing the accept button, William put the phone to his ear.

“Sebastian.”

“Your Majesty,” Sebastian Lawrence replied formally, then added more softly. “William… I am so sorry.”

“How did he die?” William said shortly, determined not to face his grief right now.

“The cancer got him, I’m afraid; the best medical care the Empire can provide and even that could not save our King from that foe, although I’m told he fought valiantly,” Sebastian replied. “He was found by a footman earlier this morning, we wanted to get things started here before we signalled the news out of the closed circle, the BBC will be breaking the news soon.”

“I expect I’ll be bombarded with calls today,” William sighed. “How did you manage to head off everyone, including Susanne?”

“I have your direct number,” Sebastian replied wryly. “And, despise our differences, I’m good friends with the defence secretary.”

“You want to get me home quickly,” William commented, using ‘you’ to refer to the British Establishment, regardless of political bent, whom Sebastian was apparently representing. “I assume the MoD has made arrangements to that effect.”

“There is an Atlas on the runway at RAF Sek Kong which, together with a flight of Typhoons, will fly you back to the UK, with stopovers in Singapore and the Caliphate, it’ll be a long eighteen hours, plus stopovers, but we’ll get you home,” Sebastian replied. “A section of sailors from Hood Company of the Royal Naval Brigade are on their way to escort you to Sek Kong, and to see to your personal protection from here until they hand off to a squad from the Royal Protection Team of the Metropolitan Police upon your arrival Brize Norton.”

“Do I have any choice in this, Sebastian?” William scowled. “I would prefer to bring my ship home one last time.”

“I’m afraid not, my old friend, we need you home now to reassure the public that there is continuity of the crown, we need to get you out there,” Sebastian replied with a heavy voice, clearly wishing otherwise. “Having you spend the next three weeks sailing home, plus exposing you in foreign ports for refuel, is not an option, given the circumstances.”

“Very well,” William sighed, watching a RN Brigade launch in the distance growing steadily bigger as it approached the Fife’s position at anchor, ready up until this point to leap into action to protection Britain’s furthest crown colony. “I’l see you when I get home.”

Eton College
Berkshire, England
Monday 16th September 1999, 0945hrs Local Time (18 Years Earlier)

Sebastian Lawrence groaned in pain as he found his face pounded into the muddy playing fields of Eton College for the fifth time in as many minutes; his arms trembling as he tried to push himself back up to his feet, but only going so far before he doubled over as one of his tormentors landed a kick to his stomach. He was thirteen years old, and had only been at Eton College, perhaps Britain’s most well-known secondary level educational institution, for a few weeks and already he had attracted the wrong sort of attention. The three boys that were attacking him were a couple of years older than himself, and apparently he had not shown them the appropriate deference and they had decided to ‘teach him a lesson’. Of course it seemed that they believed that lesson had not really taken root yet, as they had determined to repeat the lesson pretty much every day. So far he had been able to hide the bruises and injuries from any of the College staff, or his own parents, but it was getting harder and harder, his strength was lessening with every passing day and it would only be a matter of time before these repeated beatings inflicted permanent damage.

He had tried to fight them that first day, and that had apparently only made things worse; indeed he rather suspected that fighting back was the reason the lesson was getting repeated. But his own damn stubbornness had meant that there had been no chance that he would not at least try; for a time he had hoped that the black eye he had sported would be enough, especially as he had told one of the prefects that he had ‘fallen and hit his head’ rather than snitch, but ultimately they had not been content. He had been one of the, still relatively small, number of boys admitted from outside the aristocracy and the British establishment, as part of the College’s outreach programme, and he was determined not let this opportunity pass him by, even if it was likely this very factor that was spurring these boys to attack him. He wasn’t one of them, he was a commoner and, in their eyes, he was a threat to their status as Britain’s future statesmen. So, no matter what, he would take these beatings, and whatever other abuse they might dream up, rather than squander this wonderful opportunity he had been gifted.

Of course as one of the boys pushed his face into the mud for a sixth time, it was difficult not to consider quitting.

“Leave him alone!” A righteously outraged voice demanded.

Sebastian felt the hands on his head and shoulder move away. Looking up, he watched in amazement as another boy, who looked around his age, was standing up to the three older boys who were turning their attention on this new interloper. Sebastian stumbled to his feet and moved over to join the boy; the least he could do was stand beside someone who was trying to help him.

“Who the fuck do you think you are,” The ringleader demanded angrily.

“Do you not recognise me,” The Boy asked with a smug smile.

“Why would we,” The Ringleader spat.

With another hard look at his saviour Sebastian suddenly smirked, he realised who the boy was, even if his tormentors didn’t.

“It would do you well to recognise me,” The Boy warned. “And it would do well to remember me.”

“Oh, and why is that?” The Ringleader sneered.

“Because one day he will be King.”

Sebastian turned quickly as he heard a deep voice from behind a wall to the left of the group and saw two men in business suits approaching, clearly having been searching for the young Prince. Sebastian’s quick eyes caught sight of holstered pistols on the belts of the two men, whom he suspected were likely part of the Prince’s protection detail from the Metropolitan Police. If previous Royals to attend Eton, and schools like it, were any precedent, these guardians would, for the most part, stay out of sight but close enough to assist, in order to allow their charge as normal a life as possible. But clearly the Prince getting himself into a fistfight was well outside of their comfort zone, especially as it appeared that he had given them the slip in the first place.

“What do you mean?” The Ringleader asked, confused.

“They mean that he is Prince William, Duke of Cornwall,” Sebastian commented with a broad grin, as the enormity of what they had been about do do dawned upon the three older boys. “And one day he will be your King.”

“I think you boys had best be on your way,” The older of the two Police Officers commented dryly as he reached into his pocket for his notebook. “Otherwise I’ll have to take your names and report you to the Headmaster.”

“And we don’t want to see you bullying any more younger boys,” The other Police Officer added with a stern expression and tone. “Otherwise your stays here will end in disgrace, no matter how well connected daddy might be.”

The three older boys shared one last look before scarpering. With the confrontation finally over, Sebastian turned his attention properly to the young Prince for the first time, examining the other boy carefully. His cheeks were flushed and he was breathing quickly, clearly the adrenaline of a potential fight had started to build before the two coppers had arrived to defuse the situation. Truth be told Sebastian was not surprised that the older boys had not recognised the young Prince; he looked nothing like what he had looked like on television. Sure, if you looked properly, you would be able to recognise the distinctive features of the House of Windsor, but at a cursory glance, or not looking particularly hard, it was easy to overlook; especially given that he had grown his hair out and wore it in a style that was designed to deflect attention rather than attract it; likely to ensure that he did not attract unwanted attention during his time at Eton, although after this Sebastian rather suspected that it would be almost impossible going forwards.

“What is your name,” William enquired as he turned his attention to the boy he had just saved.

“Sebastian Lawrence.

“William Windsor,” The Young Prince grinned. “I think we’re going to get along famously…”

[The Reborn British Empire]

RAF Brize Norton
Oxfordshire, England
Friday 16th March 2018, 0800hrs Local Time

William took his first steps on British soil as King as he stepped down from the steps and onto the chilly flight line of RAF Brize Norton. Dozens of journalists and film crews, government and palace officials, and men and women from the RAF Station, had all assembled to formally welcome their new King back to his Kingdom. A ceremonial guard provided by the Royal Air Force was drawn up, and rendered the appropriate salute as their King passed between them. With the exception of the blue-uniformed officers and airmen of the RAF, everyone was dressed in black, as was befitting the situation, and all those wearing a hat, save for those in uniform, removed them respectfully as the King passed. Deference was not dead in the United Kingdom; due in no small part to the fact that the Crown, and the Royal Family, had a far, far higher approval rating than any politician that had attempted to break the electoral deadlock over the past few years (which was of course the reason why they had failed in that attempt). It was a sombre moment, there was no cheering, no applause, not even any music, simply the sound of the wind whipping around them as the King made the short walk to the waiting Bentley State Limousine that would return him to London.

As he stepped into the limousine William found himself face-to-face with a very much not-unwelcome surprise; his wife, the new Queen, Susanne. Almost before he had settled into his seat she had scooted across to him and put her arms around him comfortingly; knowing that now, behind the tinted windows of the limousine, would be the first time that her husband could truly let his emotions catch up with him. As the limousine made its way from flight line, through the RAF Station and out onto the main roads, where it was joined by vehicles from the Metropolitan Police’s Royal Protection Squad, William at last allowed his emotions to better him and he sobbed into his wife’s shoulder as the reality that his beloved father was dead finally hit home. Fortunately it would be a over a ninety minute drive into central London, and that was with the Royal motorcade receiving priority and travelling as fast as possible. The Atlas C1 could have landed at RAF Northolt, but between Sebastian Lawrence and now-Queen Susanne, the decision had been made to allow the new King enough time to reacclimatise before he returned to Buckingham Palace; something for which William was immensely grateful.

Driving into central London was a surreal experience. The streets were quiet, many businesses closed out of respect the day after the death of a Monarch; the death of the King was still, very much, a cause for widespread national mourning. Flags flying from government buildings, headquarters of major corporations and public parks all flew at half mast as the nation mourned. A far more heartwarming sight came into evidence, however, as William’s motorcade began to make it’s way up The Mall towards Buckingham Palace. Despite the early hour, and the bitter chill of the early spring morning, this most famous of roads was lined, not only by red-jacketed, bearskin-wearing, soldiers of the Household Division but also throngs of civilians all eager to see their new King, and to pay their respect. The area around the Victoria Memorial, immediately outside Buckingham Palace, was equally packed with onlookers, who all watched solemnly, in respectful silence rather than the cheering that their Monarch’s appearance would normally evoke, as William’s motorcade made its way through the gates and across the Forecourt before disappearing from sight.

Inside the palace William and Susanne were met by William’s mother, Queen Jennifer, the Queen Mother; the recently widowed matriarch of the family was in black mourning clothes and looked absolutely distraught.

“Mama,” William said as he took her hand’s comfortingly. “Poor Papa, he was taken away from us too soon.”

“Yes, he was,” The Queen Mother replied sadly. “Death took him in his sleep… the only way it could do so without a fight.”

“Indeed,” William nodded with a sad smile. “I am so sorry, Mama.”

They were joined by a trio of Palace officials who made their way down the great staircase towards the small group around the new King. The officials were led by Colonel Sir Jonathan Parsons, Private Secretary to the King; the senior operational member of the Royal Household who served not only as the administrator of the King’s day-to-day activities but also as the key liaison to His Majesty’s Government and various other aspects of the British state. Like all of the other officials that William had seen so far, with the exception of the Grenadier Guardsmen who had been mounting the King’s Guard, the Private Secretary and the two other officials were dressed in black mourning clothes.

“Your Majesty,” Sir Jonathan said formally. “Forgive me for not giving you time to grieve, but there is a great deal we must attend to.”

“So soon, Sir Jonathan?” The Queen Mother frowned. “Can you not give the man a moment to grieve?”

“I am afraid not, Your Majesty, with a General Election, already now delayed by fourteen days because of the death of the King, the nation cannot afford even a short delay in the accession of a new King,” Sir Jonathan replied firmly, referring to Election Day, originally intended for the 20th March. “Sire, the Privy Council is waiting for you; we must get about setting affairs in motion; moreover we need to discuss some of the comments you made last time we talked.”

“As you wish, Sir Jonathan,” William sighed, hugging his mother. “I’ll be back soon, Susanne, look after her, please.”

Susanne nodded and kissed her husband on the cheek before William, Sir Jonathan and the other two officials began to make their way towards where the Privy Council was waiting. On the walk the new King turned to his Private Secretary with a frown.

“You wished to discuss something.”

“I did, Your Majesty; now we both know that this election is, shall we say unlikely, to result in a majority government which can break the stalemate,” Sir Jonathan commented, to which William nodded. “Last time you were here you talked about exercising Royal prerogative to simply appoint one to break the deadlock, and trust the public to confirm your choice.”

“I did,” William nodded again. “You oppose this course of action?”

“I think it is a very, very dangerous course of action, Your Majesty,” Sir Jonathan said warningly. “Whilst yes it may break the deadlock, if the Crown is seen to actively support someone, should the public disagree with your choice… the damage it could do to the Monarchy…”

“It is a risk we must take, Sir Jonathan; I will not allow the political deadlock that has hamstrung this country for decades continue any longer,” William replied firmly, stopping mid-stride to face Sir Jonathan. “One way or another we need to break this deadlock; if we give one party a chance to prove itself we could end the cycle forever, but we, as King, must make the first, brave, step forwards.”

“You may be right, Your Majesty,” Sir Jonathan conceded. “But you will change the role of the Monarchy, perhaps permanently, and neither of us can predict what will happen in the long run.”

“Perhaps not, and although I do not intend to make a habit of it, that will have to be a problem for one of my successors,” William shook his head. “Now don’t get me wrong I don’t intend to throw-out the entire constitution, but we cannot afford to do nothing; we’re lucky that there was, at least, some consensus on the economy and defence, otherwise god only knows what state the nation would be in.”

Sir Jonathan nodded his concession and the group continued their progress towards the audience room in which a large number of men and women were waiting for them. A great deal of them were senior politicians; after all the current constitutional format of the United Kingdom placed the majority of practical power in the hands of elected Members of Parliament, for good or ill, and in the modern age that was only right. There were individuals from both major parties, and the handful of smaller parties that covered certain areas or particular causes; in short this group of politicians represented the senior leadership of the British political system. Of course, despite the sombre occasion, there were several clear groups and dark looks being shared, after so many years of deadlock, recriminations and infighting there was no love lost between any of them. And that, William thought dryly, was part of the problem. Perhaps if William was able to put his plan into action, to make his choice and make his support clear, the people would vote out the old warhorses that clung onto the way things had once been, and vote in new blood. But that remained to be seen, for the moment it was a pipe dream.

In addition to the politicians there were also a significant number of the members of the aristocracy, for very good reason. As political stagnation and stalemate had become set in during the second half of the Twentieth Century, during which precious little was getting done in Parliament, the nobility, who had been facing a steady decline in their influence, had acted decisively during a time when decisiveness was hard to come by. Where central government was too concerned with political squabbles the Peers of the Realm had stepped up to the increase and had put their money, and their reputations, on the line in supporting various local and regional projects, from infrastructure to major business ventures. Their reward once all was said and done was a new found influence and a renewal of the traditional deference to which they had once been afforded. No one doubted that it was the Members of Parliament in the House of Commons that held the legislative power and executive authority, at the behest of the Crown of course, but reversing the trend the House of Lords still wielded significant influence, and had decisively blocked more than one bill over recent years as the Commons vied internally for power.

William strode through their midst, the crowd of Lords and high commoners parting before him, as he made his way to the raised raised dais at the centre of the room. Looking out upon them he turned his mind to the words that he must speak, having read them repeatedly on his flight over from Hong Kong, knowing that this moment would soon come.

“Now that it has pleased Almighty Gall, to call to his Mercy my father, our late Sovereign Lord, Edward IX of Blessed and Glorious memory, by whose decease the Crown is solely and rightfully come to me,” William said formally, his voice echoing around the room. “I therefore call upon you, the Lords Spiritual and Temporal of this Realm, and Gentlemen and Ladies of Quality, being here assembled as His Late Majesty’s Privy Council, to make your loyalty known.”

One by one, the Lords first, the gathered men and women stepped forward, knelt and kissed William’s hand as he acknowledged them all, by name, calling upon every part of his memory to remember them all, but succeeding well enough. It took some time, of course, but it was a vitally important moment. Although legally speaking he had become King at the moment of his father’s demise, it was this moment that his claim to the throne was accepted and he truly became King. Towards the end, as befitting his status as a member of the shadow cabinet, was Sebastian Lawrence who, despite their close friendship, took a knee like the others and kissed his friends hands respectfully. 

“Sebastian,” William smiled sadly. “I did not expect this to happen so soon.”

“Nor I, Your Majesty,” Sebastian replied formally. “And yet, here we are.”

“Here we are indeed,” William nodded. “Dine with me and Susanne tonight, I must speak with you.”

“Of course, Sire.”

HM Dockyard Portsmouth
Hampshire, England
Monday 11th October 2010, 1930hrs Local Time

Midshipmen William Wales, for he was now Prince of Wales not merely Duke of Cornwall, and Midshipmen Sebastian Lawrence showed their MoD Form 90 ID Cards to the RN Brigade sailors standing guard at one of the main entrance to His Majesty’s Dockyard Portsmouth. The senior of the two, a Leading Seaman, examined both the ID cards, doing his best impression of not recognising the young Prince, before rendering a crisp salute to the two young officers. Hefting their black deployment bags they made their way past the two armed sailors and onto the base. Portsmouth Dockyard might not be the largest of the two major Royal Navy Dockyards on the south coast, that title was held by Devonport Dockyard, the largest naval base in western Europe, but it was just as busy and was the beating heart of the Royal Navy. It was home to the largest vessels currently in the Royal Navy, the fifty-five thousand tonne fleet carriers of the CVA-01 type, HM Ships King George and Prince of Wales, and their escorts in the form of the steadily retiring Type-42 Destroyers and their replacement, the highly advanced Type-45 Destroyer. The two Fleet Carriers were in the middle of being replaced, by a four-ship class under the CVF programme, which would reach initial operating capability in the second half of the decade.

It was to HMS King George, the current flagship of the Royal Navy, that the two Midshipmen were bound. They had recently passed out of the Britannia Royal Naval College at Dartmouth and had been commissioned into the Royal Navy. As was traditional they were embarking upon a nine-month midshipmen cruise that would although them to put some of their training to use and gain valuable experience prior to attending their Specialist Training; in their case the Initial Warfare Officer’s Course (IWOC) at HMS Collingwood in Fareham. The Midshipman Cruise was also an opportunity for one last check to ensure that the young officers were adequately suited in an operational environment, before being fully trained and let loose on the fleet; more than one officer had failed their Midshipman’s Cruise and had found their commission being revoked as ‘surplus to the requirements of the service’. It was the Navy’s way of ensuring that those individuals that might excel in the classroom, but prove to be liabilities in an operational environment, were weeded out before they were given too much responsibility, although BRNC was usually pretty good at identifying problems far earlier.

The King George, heading up the RN Carrier Strike Group, was due to depart upon a six month visibility patrol as part of the UK Task Force, the main deployable formation of the Royal Navy. Despite the continued political stalemate in Parliament, which prevented anything more forward-thinking in both domestic and foreign affairs, there was enough of a consensus to agree upon the need to provide adequately for the defence of the realm, and that one of the best ways to ensure that, and to remind the world that despite it’s political situation Britain was still to be considered, was to conduct global tours with the largest ships in the fleet; the Aircraft Carriers. Given the size and common deployments, the Carriers were very popular ships for Midshipmen Cruises as they allowed the Midshipman to gain experience without, actually, being particularly essential to the ship’s operational capability. It also allowed the Midshipmen to see the world; being able to promise this to prospective new recruits was a very, very effective recruiting tool.

The two young officers made their way along the dockside through the autumn twilight, passing the forms of Type-45 Destroyers, and a few Type-42s which were being replaced by the larger, more capable 45s. They passed the towering form of HMS Prince of Wales before reaching the King George herself, and began climbing the not insignificant gangway until they were confronted by armed ratings and the Officer of the Day, a Lieutenant, in No.1 Uniform who, after an exchange of salutes, welcomed them aboard and checked their IDs.

“Welcome aboard the King George, Midshipmen,” The Officer of the Day said polietly, but remembering the directives direct from Buckingham Palace that the Prince of Wales was to be addressed as if he were any other officer. “You should report to the wardroom the Executive Officer will get someone to show you to your cabins and get you settled in..”

“Aye, Sir,” William nodded.

The two Midshipmen hefted their deployment bags higher onto their shoulders and began to make their way through the passageways of the ship. Given that it was a design from over forty years previously it had the same interior design and look as other ships from the earlier, very different from the newer look found upon the Type-45, and the ships that would follow it. That being said, although it might look ‘old’ it certainly did not look uncared for or untidy; the two young officers could tell immediately that neither the Captain, nor the Executive Officer, were prepared to accept the age of their command as a excuse for a decline in standards. This was not without reason of course; despite their age the King George and Prince of Wales would be at the forefront of any offensive action conducted by the Royal Navy, and that meant maintaining the highest standards. Moreover, the ship was also a powerful ambassador for the United Kingdom overseas, and considering that the ship regularly threw a cocktail party, or some other social gathering, whenever it came alongside in a foreign port, she simply had to look her best.

Given the hour, and the fact that they were still alongside, the passageways were relatively quiet; with a crew of over three thousand it would never truly be quiet aboard ship, but it was not exactly busy. It was going to be strange, William mused to himself, that the four carriers that were replacing the CVA-01s, would be a little larger but would boast a crew half the size; a testament to modern automation. Of course over sixteen hundred officers and ratings would still be the biggest complement in the fleet, but it would be a small crew for the size. It did, however, allow the Royal Navy to adequately man twice as many carriers with the same amount of manpower. Indeed, the automation and reduced crew requirements was part of the reason how the Admiralty had been able to pull off getting four carriers; ordering more hulls had actually brought the cost-per-hull down, but the manpower requirements had been a sticking point in Parliament. Which was the last thing that any defence procurement wanted given the current political climate.

The designers, Aircraft Carrier Alliance, had come through with the innovative and revolutionary design that would increase the efficiency and solved the manpower issue at the same time; and gained the Royal Navy it’s biggest procurement success in decades. Indeed, the decision to operate four carriers, with two more recently approved, had had a knock-on effect to the entire Fleet, necessitating larger number of escorts and had also helped justify the expense that had been required to nasalise the Eurofighter Typhoon whilst still retaining cutting-edge capability in the form of the Sea Typhoon FGR.1. In short, the concerted efforts of the Admiralty, Royal Navy Veterans in Parliament and in the general public, and widespread desire for a core national effort that everyone could come together on, especially with pretty much every other topic being a quagmire, had transformed the Royal Navy, reversing the decline and stabilising the service. Indeed, this was in no small part due to the reaffirmation of the Royal Navy as a matter of national pride, and therefore worth the cost to the taxpayer.

William and Sebastian reached the wardroom with little difficulty, only getting lost twice, and entered after knocking on the door; being careful to remove their headgear before doing so; you simply did not bring headgear in a Royal Navy wardroom; even if you weren’t wearing it. The chatter inside stopped for a moment as they entered, especially as all the officers inside identified and recognised the Prince of Wales in their midst, but the talk resumed as they remembered the strict directions they had been given by the Captain earlier in the day. The Executive Officer, a Royal Navy Commander with a greying bear by the name of Michael Greene, stood to greet them.

“Ah, our illustrious Midshipmen,” Commander Greene commented, his words might of by sarcastic but his tone was wry and welcoming. “Glad you could make it aboard tonight, Gentlemen, you’ll be able to get settled before we take her to sea tomorrow.”

“We’re going to see so soon, Sir?” Sebastian queried. “We were told we’d be in Pompey for at least another week?”

“Got a girl waiting on you, Snotty?” Commander Greene grinned, using the ‘playful’ nickname for Midshipmen.

“Well, now that you mention it, Sir…”

“Unfortunately she’ll have to wait, I’m afraid, our schedule has been moved up,” Commander Greene replied, gesturing to the new daily orders for the following day. “Let’s get you boys settled in… we’ve got a lot of work to do…”

[The Reborn British Empire]

Buckingham Palace
London, England
Friday 16th March 2018, 1900hrs Local Time

“What do you mean that neither the PM or the Ministry of Defence have not made any strategic positioning moves since the death of my father,” William frowned, placing his fork down incredulously. “You’re telling me that we’re in our most vulnerable position in thirty years and we’ve done nothing.”

Sebastian Lawrence looked apologetic, but there was of course very little that he himself could do. After all he was the Shadow Secretary of State for Defence, his job was to hold the government to account and to formulate the defence policy of the Opposition for the occasion that they made it into power. He had absolutely no command authority over the armed forces, even if his position entitled him to a position in the Privy Council and enabled him access to the armed forces and to hold discussions with the same. Indeed, William rather suspected that the Government had likely tried to keep Sebastian out of the loop entirely, but the fact that, as Shadow Defence Secretary, he was entitled to daily intelligence and military briefs had made that all but impossible. William himself would have found out the next morning, when his red box of state papers arrived, but he was damned glad that Sebastian had found out in advance as it meant that he, as King, could do something about it. Aside from anything else he should have been informed, through his military Equerry, about what was going on, something he intended to raise with the PM as soon as possible.

“From what I’ve gathered the PM seems to think that putting the fleet to sea and placing the RAF on high alert could be seen as provocative,” Sebastian replied with a shrug and rolled eyes. “I understand that the Chief of the Defence Staff argued the point, in Downing Street no less, but he was overruled by the PM in the end.”

“Nonsense, our putting our military on high alert the day after our King died is just being prudent; with an election coming up as well now would be the perfect time for one of our foes to strike at us,” William shot back with a scowl. “We should have half the Home Fleet at sea, and the rest getting ready to do the same just in case, and get our deployed ships to their hotspots, or covering our holdings; most of the East Indies Station is away from Singapore and Hong Kong on exercises for gods sake.”

“I don’t disagree,” Sebastian shook his head. “But there’s not a great deal we can do.”

“Bollocks to that, I’m their King,” William snapped, throwing down his napkin and standing. “We’re going to Northwood.”

Sebastian’s eyes widened in surprise; Northwood was the location of the Permanent Joint Headquarters; the top-level operational command and control centre for the entire British Armed Forces. Where the Chief of the Defence Staff, and the others, advised the government and set policy, it was the Chief of Joint Operations, and the operational commanders, that actually handled the day-to-day command of the Armed Forces, even if orders from the PM would legally come through the Chief of the Defence Staff first, the only one of the Service Chiefs to legally hold command authority. There was little opportunity to argue however as William was already on his way out of the room. Fortunately they ran into one of the King’s footmen carrying the William’s naval uniform’s jacket, which had just been tailored to replace the rank of Commander with that of Admiral of the Fleet, which William now had the right to wear by virtue of being King, into which he slipped his arms and began to button up as he strode forwards, taking his now-embellished peaked cap from the footman and settling it onto his head as he stepped out into the quadrangle where a car was already waiting for them.

Unlike official visits, where he would use the Bentley State Limousine with full security, the suddenness of this trip meant that discretion was their best protection in this case, and the Royalty Protection Division of the Metropolitan Police had decided that the best way to protect their charge in this case was an unmarked, but armoured, Jaguar XJ Sentinel, similar to the one that the Prime Minister used on a regular basis. They sat in silence as they drove through the streets of London, Sebastian knew his King well enough to know that his expression was one that brokered no objection or argument, and truth be told Sebastian knew that something had to be done, even if in the back of his mind he knew they were breaking all the rules.

It took them a little under an hour to reach Northwood Headquarters, being waved through the security at the gate the moment the guards saw their King in the back seat, and were soon on their way to the main building. They were met in the atrium by the Chief of Joint Operations, currently Air Chief Marshal Sir Keith Parker, who saluted crisply and exchanged handshakes with the two men.

“Your Majesty, what an unexpected pleasure,” Sir Keith said cautiously.

“You may dispense with the pleasantries, Air Chief Marshal,” William said crisply. “Take me to the JOC.”

Sir Keith nodded sharply and led the way through the corridors of the building until they reached the Joint Operations Centre, a large room designed to allow the Chief of Operations to oversee all British forces deployed on operations abroad. In addition to the central situation table and display there were banks of officers and other ranks hard at work to keep the information up to date to the second. There were a few surprised glanced as the King stepped into their midst, but he waved them back into their seats almost before they had left them; the work they were doing was too vital for formalities.

“Am I correct in my understanding that no orders have been forthcoming from either Downing Street or the MOD with regards to strategic moves in the wake of the death of my father?” William queried, although he already had the confirmation from looking at the displays, Sir Keith nodded. “Well, that is quite simply unacceptable; I’m not saying that anyone is going to take action against us, but we need to be ready just in case.”

“What do you suggest, Sir?”

“Well, I can see that the UK Task Force is currently in the South Pacific; it’s doing absolutely no good for us there beyond flying the flag, so let’s move it back into the Atlantic to put it close to the Falklands, Bermuda and the Mediterranean if we need it,” William replied promptly. “I also know for a fact that the half the East Indies Station is conducting exercises around Diego Garcia, I want the Singapore Squadron and the Hong Kong Squadron back at their respective homeports to defend against any attack there, now is not the time for exercises.”

William paused.

“As for us here at home, I want every ship in the Home Fleet that can put to sea on short notice to do so; the Home Commanders can dispose of them as they wish, but I want them at sea not sitting alongside,” William continued. “I want Fighter Command to put up additional patrols and stand to additional alert aircraft on the ground, and for I Corps to put their divisions on notice for deployment to defend against an assault.”

“Sir… you know as well as I do that orders of this nature are supposed to come from the Prime Minister,” Air Chief Marshal Parker replied bravely. “What you are suggesting is tantamount to a military coup…”

“How can it be a military coup when we swear our allegiance to the Crown,” A new voice, which rang with confidence, queried. “Although, I do hope that you don’t intend to make a habit of this, Your Majesty.”

William smiled as he turned to face the new voice, belonging to Field Marshal Sir Edward Kingsley, the Chief of the Defence Staff, he had just strode into the room having got wind of what was going on at Northwood.

“You can be assured of that, Sir Edward,” William said as the men shook hands. “I don’t intend to rip up constitutional convention all the time, but with the failure of the Government to act I don’t intend to just sit back and leave the realm undefended.”

“Nor would I expect you too, Sir,” Field Marshal Kingsley replied with a nod. “Alright Keith, follow your orders, its my head on the block now if Parliament wants to make a fuss.”


Air Chief Marshal Parker nodded and got about issuing the orders. William, Sebastian and Kingsley stood watching this take place. All three of them knew that they were skirting the law here, but given the circumstances, there was little else he could do, and William was confident that he would have enough support to get away with it. He also knew that, for good or ill, he had, once again challenged constitutional convention and, effectively, won; it was highly likely going forwards that William would be able to use this as precedent for being more closely involved in strategic military decisions going forwards, indeed he intended to insist upon being a regular attendee at COBRA meetings. If he succeeded in his scheme to get Sebastian made PM it was even more likely that he could get this ingrained in precedent. What he had said to Kingsley was true; he had no intention of making flaunting the unwritten constitution of the United Kingdom a regular occurrence, but he was fully of the opinion that the Crown should take a more active role in matters like this.

As with his predecessors he would remain out of politics, although he intended to reassert Royal authority to appoint a PM in the event of a hung parliament and return the matter to the electorate, but in matters of national security and the national interest he fully intended to take a more active role, and he doubted that he would receive much opposition after years of stagnation. He knew that he was walking a tightrope here, but he intended to walk a very fine line between reasserting some of his reserve powers, and respecting the mandate of Parliament and the Prime Minister. It would take some doing, but if he succeeded in securing Sebastian the Premiership at least they could make use of trial and error between them, setting a framework for the future. That was his hope in any event; for now he watched as the British Armed Forces reoriented at his command.

Horse Guards Parade
London, England
Saturday 17th June 2017, 1100hrs Local Time

As the Prince of Wales rode onto the parade square, passing between the open ranks of No. 3 Guard, Horse Guards Parade was awash with colour and was the centre of pomp, circumstance and pageantry that only the British could truly pull off year after year. Under normal stances Trooping the Colour, otherwise known as the King’s Birthday Parade, would be attended by the King himself, however the King was ill and the Prince of Wales was taking the salute in his stead. The Prince of Wales was accompanies by the Royal Colonels of the various Guards units on parade as well as various other senior officers of the Household Division or the Royal Household, all of whom were mounted. Like the majority of the attendees on the parade square itself, the Prince of Wales was in red full dress uniform, specifically that of the Grenadier Guards, of whom he was the Royal Colonel, rather than his typical naval uniform. The Prince of Wales took his position immediately in front of the Horse Guards Building, the Royal Colonels and other mounted officers took their positions on either side of him.

From the very centre of the parade square the Field Officer in Brigade Waiting, the senior officer in charge of the proceedings, commenced the parade with the command:

“Guards! Royal Salute! Present… Arms!”

As the arrayed Foot Guards presented arms, and their officers rendered smart salutes with their swords, the national anthem began to play and, unlike his father who would not salute at this point the Prince of Wales raised his hand in salute; as did the Royal Colonels, the mounted officers and any man or woman in uniform who was attending the parade. Once the anthem had finished the Prince of the Wales, led by troopers from the Household Cavalry, eased his stead forwards and began to make his way before the long line of assembled guards, each from the various regiments of foot guards, casting professional eyes over the turnout of the Guardsmen. Whilst he did so the slow march of the Irish Guards, the Regiment which was trooping its colour this year, ‘Let Erin Remember’ played in the background. As he reached the far end and began to make his, much quicker, way back a faster air, but not the quick march of the Irish Guards, was played, in this case ‘Garryowen’. By the time the Prince of Wales reached his position in front of the House Guards Building the music ceased.

Once the Royal Colonels had taken their places again the Field Officer gave the command:

‘Troop!”

With three strikes on a bass drum the massed bands of the foot guards began their march. As the guards changed arms the Massed Bands marched and countermarched their way around Horse Guards Parade in slow and quick time, as per tradition the slow march was to the waltz from Les Huguenots. As the quick march was taking place a lone drummer made his way towards the right of No. 1 Guard. Once the Massed Bands had finished their march the lone drummer played the ‘Drummers Call’, ordering the Captain of No. 1 Guard to cede his command to the Subaltern of No.1 Guard, which changed arms once more whilst the Field Officer called orders for the remaining foot guards to also change arms but to then stand at ease. With the drummers call made the lone drummer returned to the Massed Bands.

As an orderly took the pace stick from the Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM) of the Irish Guards, positioned behind No. 1 Guard, which was now termed the ‘Escort for the Colour’ the RSM drew his sword; the only time a British Army infantry warrant officer ever drew his blade on a parade was during at this very moment. The Subaltern then ordered the Guard to move into close order, adequately dressed it, then, with the Ensign following, and the RSM marching behind, led the Escort for the Colour forward onto the central part of the parade square to the tune of ‘The British Grenadiers’. Fifteen steps away from the Colour Party the music stops and four steps later the Escort for the Colour halts in place, is ordered to open ranks and is again dressed. Once the Escort for the Colour ceased movements the Field Officer ordered the remaining Guards to attention and to slope arms.

Once the remaining Guards had completed their movement the RSM marched to the front of the Escort and, followed by the Ensign, approached the Colour Party. The RSM rendered a parade-perfect salute to the Colour with his sword before taking the Colour Sergeant before turning, marching to the Ensign, a Second Lieutenant chosen for his perfect drill, and presented the Colour to him. The Ensign rendered a crisp salute before sheathing his sword, without taking his eyes off the Colour, and takes possession of it. At this moment the No. 1 Guard was now termed ‘Escort to the Colour. As the Escort to the Colour arranged itself and began to slow march to the far and of the line of foot guards the Massed Bands conducted their unique anti-clockwise pinwheel manoeuvre, by far the most complex and impressed foot drill move that any military band could be called upon to complete.

Once the Escort to the Colour had reached No. 8 Guard at the far end of the line the music changed to ‘The Grenadiers Slow March’ as the Escort to the Colour trooped the colour down the long line of foot guards, all of whom had presented arms. This central part of the parade was a throw-back to a time when a regiment’s colour was a vital part of its cohesion in battle and would be regularly trooped before the Regiment to ensure they all knew what they would be looking for in the smoke and confusion of battle. Only once the Escort to the Colour returned to its position at No. 1 Guard their Captan, who had handed his command to the Subaltern, resumed his command over the unit and brought the Escort back into line with the rest of the foot guards.

Through a flurry of crisp orders the foot guards turned, and repositioned themselves for their march past; only once everything was in readiness did the Field Officer move forwards towards the Prince of Wales and, after saluting, informed him that the foot guards were ready for the march past. The Prince of Wales nodded and the Field Officer commenced the march past with the command:

“Guards will march past in slow and quick time! Slow… March!”

With the Escort to the Colour leading the way the eight companies of foot guards conducted the two complete circuits of the Horse Guards Parade, saluting the Prince of Wales as they passed. The Prince of Wales himself saluted the Colour as it passed by him each time. The music changed with each of the companies, switching to the slow or quick march of the regiment in question. Once the two circuits, one in slow time and one in quick time, had been completed the Field Officer rode forwards towards the Prince of Wales and rendered a salute with his sword.

“His Majesty’s Guards have ended the march-past,” He said formally.

With the foot guards part of the parade completed the Household Cavalry, consisting of the Blues and Royals and the Life Guards, conducted their own march past at both the walk-march and the trot-past. Once this was complete a final Royal Salute was conducted after which the Field Officer requested permission to march off the parade from the Prince of Wales. Once this was done the Prince of Wales and his escort rode to the head of the column and the parade of over twelve hundred soldiers and four hundred musicians, with their Prince at their head, marched their way up the Mall towards Buckingham Palace.

Once they were back at Buckingham Palace the Prince of Wales made his way into the building where he was met his father, the King. The old man looked ill and, as he had been thinking all day, the Prince could not help but feel that, sooner or later, he would be attending the Trooping the Colour as King, not just stepping in for his father. The two men exchanged some words before the Prince made his way up to the famous balcony at the front of the building where was joined by his uncles, sisters and other members of the Royal Family who stepped out onto the balcony to thunderous applause from the gathered spectators around the Victoria Memorial. After waving to the crowd a few times the Prince and the Royal Family raised their eyes to the sky, along with the crowds, to watch the flypast conducted by the Royal Air Force and the Fleet Air Arm of the Royal Navy.

The RAF Memorial Flight, consisting of an Avro Lancaster bomber and two Hurricanes and two Spitfires led the way, followed by two Sea Typhoons of the Fleet Air Arm and two normal Typhoon FGR.4s of the Royal Air Force. These were followed by several move waves, including Tornado strike fighters, Atlas transports and various other aircraft. Of course the eagerly awaited part of the flypast was its conclusion, with the world-famous Red Arrows conducting a flyover stream trails of red white and blue.

As he waved to the crowd one last time before heading inside, the Prince of Wales could not help but wonder under what title he would appear on the balcony on the next King’s Birthday Parade.

[The Crooked Beat]

Holland Park Lawn Tennis Club, Kensington, London

Teacups clattered in saucers, and sunglasses slid down the bridges of many a well-heeled nose, as Magnus Gideon von Antell, having flagrantly whiffed on a serve, erupted in a veritable towering inferno of obscene language. This was aimed, though without any notable discretion, principally and in equal measure at both his two opponents and his teammate in what, to all appearances, had started out a short time earlier as an altogether tame and friendly mixed-doubles match. Young Graf von Antell's paroxysms were truly impressive to behold, if perhaps, in light of the man's notoriously short temper and of course also his rather tender years, not quite as effectual as the Count wished them to be. A youthful and, according to common belief, somewhat dissolute pretender to a throne whose significance in modern Europe had waned, over recent centuries, almost to nothingness, could after all only call up so much terror, and as lookers-on would soon gather not even Graf von Antell's own companions took him very seriously. Not, however, that such an awareness deterred his outbursts of hysterical fury in any way. Indeed, if anything, the sense of having made himself a spectacle only fueled his eccentricity, and beneath a multitude of sharply disapproving glances he continued, bent double, to bounce about and rant, his normally pallid face turned a vivid shade of red.

"You son of a Papist whore!" were the first coherent words out of Graf von Antell's mouth after an extended bout of guttural half-screaming and slobbering, "You Shieldian dog! You...you...dirt! Filth!" Von Antell let out another yelp of ire, throwing his racquet onto the court surface with force enough to see it bounce back and rocket off some distance, settling with a clatter indecently near a pair of tea-sipping ladies. Another high-pitched yowl issued forth, accompanied by a formidable volume of spittle, as he advanced to attack the net, kicking at it with murderous intent though to no visible result. His attempt to inflict meaningful damage in that arena frustrated, he turned then on his partner, the tall, majestic, and, it would have to be said, strikingly beautiful Dorothea Keyserling, daughter of perhaps the von Antells' most reliable retainers, reliable enough at any rate to follow Magnus Gideon's great-grandfather, Magnus Ernst, into foreign exile. Again he deployed his favorite term of insult, deriding Miss Keyserling in language unfit to print, though it would have been clear to anyone placed to observe the scene that she had undoubtedly weathered similar attacks in the past, and appeared little the worse for it. She watched and listened in silence, her arms crossed in disapproval, as Magnus Gideon hopped about before her, making no answer until, height of folly, the Count grabbed at her racquet, presumably intending to send it hurtling off to some other portion of the court. At this she withdrew a step and, winding up powerfully with her right hand, landed a mighty slap on Magnus Gideon's cheek, strong enough to send him sprawling. Flustered and, momentarily, speechless, he scrabbled about in confusion for a moment before picking himself up and, oppressed by the knowledge of his having been made a fool of, resuming his stream of invective, though with markedly less intensity than before, and with diminishing ardor. Inevitably, Keyserling knew, Magnus Gideon, a man seldom lauded for his resolution, was bound to tire himself out.

Keyserling nodded meaningfully to the opposing couple, the male half of which, a young man easily a head taller than Magnus Gideon, trimly muscular where the Count was merely thin, promptly jogged over to wrap a comradely arm around Magnus Gideon’s shoulder. “Come now, old chum,” he could be heard saying between Magnus Gideon’s last fits of swearing, and having defeated, through persistence, the Count’s numerous attempts to shake him off, was at last permitted to accompany him into the changing room. With Magnus Gideon finally off the stage, Keyserling, rolling her eyes at the other young woman, could finally breathe a sigh of relief, though any sense of relaxation evaporated at the sight of a club porter striding determinedly in her direction. The man would, normally, kiss her hand, but this time all he offered was a brusque and businesslike handshake.

“Now look, Arthur,” she began in her sweetest tone of voice, “He is a hot-blooded young man, as we all know. He takes the game seriously. In a few hours, I just know it, he will be feeling so rotten…”

“Madam,” replied the porter, summoning his most forceful manner, “this is a respectable institution, and one governed by the highest values of propriety, sportsmanship, respect, fairness, good fellowship…er, probity, decency, er…”

Keyserling quickly seized upon the opportunity offered by Arthur’s adjectival exhaustion, taking his hand in both of hers. “My dear man, I am so, so sorry. Allow me to apologize on behalf of the Count, and, if I may be so bold, the house of the von Antells too. No, I agree, there is no excuse for this behavior, none. I promise you, you have my word as a noblewoman, that the Count will make full and complete restitution. Know, though I tell you this in strictest confidence, Magnus Gideon loves this club like nowhere else, ever since he was a little boy. He tends to lose control of himself from time to time, yes, but you and I know, he has a good heart…”

It was a performance that very nearly made Keyserling, prone to cynicism, wretch, though albeit an effective one, and Arthur’s stony frown was reliably transformed into a grudging smile. “Oh, well, Miss Dorothea, we all love the little Count too, his quirks and all. Just, please try to see it doesn’t happen again.” Artuhr, evidently satisfied, turned on his heels to leave, but a few steps later turned back abruptly. “My dear, I almost forgot. Please let the Count know, there’s someone here to see him, someone from the old country, it seems.”

“Of course, my friend, I’ll let him know straight away,” replied Keyserling with a winning smile, which concealed her strong surprise at this unexpected turn of events most effectively. Making then in the direction of the ladies’ dressing room, she waited until Arthur was out of sight before turning directly for the front office, where Magnus Gideon von Antell’s visitor was undoubtedly waiting, and upon her arrival she found, in truth, very much the sort of man which she had pictured. Installed in one of the club office’s plush easy-chairs was a very tall, evidently well-built individual of obvious military bearing despite his civilian outfit, who rose immediately upon Keyserling’s entry. It seemed as though his instinct to stand at attention was suppressed only with some effort, and as she sized him up Keyserling could not help but smile. In front of her, clearly, was no sort of envoy from the Gandvian embassy, as a conspicuous absence of any cigarette odor testified. Rather, it was an entirely different and very rare sort of visitor, and Keyserling was deeply intrigued.

“Dorothea Keyserling, I presume?” began the stranger. “Kurt Hansson, at your service.” Not in the least bit put off by what was transparently a false name, Keyserling evaluated the man with a discerning eye, and found herself rather impressed. He gave a deep, chivalrous bow and offered Keyserling his hand. “If I might be so bold, madam, I should like to speak with Herr Graf von Antell, if he is available, on matters of some import.”

“Mr. Hansson, what a pleasure to meet you. I’m very sorry to say that Magnus Gideon is indisposed at the moment, but I assure you, whatever business you have with him, you can discuss with me. We have no secrets.”

Keyserling, determined not to make it too easy for this Hansson, looked straight into his pale, blue eyes, and could detect a moment’s hesitancy as they narrowed. Probably, though, he knew full well where matters stood between Graf von Antell and the woman who was, ostensibly, his fiancée, notwithstanding the fact that an official wedding was still nowhere in the offing.

“Very well, madam,” Hansson answered. “Is there a place where we could go to talk?”

Fifteen minutes later Hansson, dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, and Keyserling, still in her lily-white tennis costume, were seated at a café table a short distance from the Holland Park club, outside a posh and usefully crowded establishment where their conversation would have a good chance of passing unnoticed. Neither British nor Gandvian intelligence services, of course, any longer paid close attention to Magnus Gideon or his associates, nor was it likely that Hansson’s mission had registered with a Security Police now in the throes of a chaotic reorganization at home. Still, it was clear enough from Hansson’s demeanor, and Keyserling could well guess, that subjects of real gravity were under discussion. After an awkward pause while a café waiter brought out their espressos, Hansson launched into his pitch.

“Madam Keyserling, it is my honor to represent the legitimate government of the Gandvian state, formerly called principality and now democratic republic, but rightfully, as we all know, a kingdom…”

“In German, please, Kurt,” intoned Keyserling, sensitive to the Gandvian language’s novelty even in that cosmopolitan world city. German, while perhaps more widely understood than Gandvik’s virtually unique official language, was much less conspicuous.

“Oh, ahem, yes, naturally,” a slightly embarrassed Hansson continued. “As I was saying, a great kingdom, an ancient and glorious one. And Maguns Gideon von Antell is the heir to that throne, which has been vacant for far too long. History has given us a golden opportunity to put matters back on their proper path, to restore the order and direction which has been so blatantly lacking, above all to kick out the socialists and fellow-travelers who now stand poised to ruin the nation. I have been sent to make contact with your household by a certain well-placed individual who I cannot, for reasons of security, openly name.” Keyserling, much more closely attuned to Gandvian politics than Magnus Gideon, low though he had set that particular standard, knew that Hansson referred to Lieutenant-General Peter Benckendorff, former leader of Gandvik’s parachute troops and now a fugitive, having orchestrated a failed coup d’etat. “Our organization, which encompasses many honest, earnest, and resolute men with extensive military experience, has made contact with similar groups on the island of Sumatra, where the failures of the Riga government’s colonial policies have brought about a crisis, and we have it on good authority that a declaration of full self-government could be issued at almost any moment...To put it very bluntly, we hope to restore the Gandvian monarchy on Sumatra, which now presents itself as a springboard for future endeavors in Gandvik itself. Can we count on our sovereign to fulfill the role in which destiny casts him?”

Keyserling, having anticipated the content of Hansson’s appeal, delivery of which he’d clearly practiced over the course of his international flight, was ready with her answer. She matched Hansson’s intent gaze for a moment before downing her espresso in one mighty gulp. “Herr Hansson, the king is ready to pick up his crown. Meet me here tomorrow, two o’clock.” At that she rose briskly from the wicker chair and strode off, leaving Hansson, his upper lip nearly quivering beneath a thin blond moustache, in an ecstasy of nationalist pride.


(OCC: I do hope you don't mind too terribly this characteristically ham-handed intrusion into British affairs. I've gone and assumed that the pretenders to the Gandvian throne (now abolished) might have gone into exile in Britain, and now that Gandvik has lurched into a slow-moving state crisis, the Gandvian nationalist-monarchist far-right sees an opportunity to restore the ancient royal house, which had been replaced sometime in the mid-1800s with a decidedly extemporized substitute intended to be entirely beholden to the military and the civil service. Though these plans are definitely being pursued in a conspiratorial atmosphere of great secrecy, it is entirely plausible that British security services know exactly what's up, though I'm thinking also that Britain might be interested in supporting the plot if it means weakening what seems set to become an outright socialist power and is one of Walmington's biggest foes to boot. Anyhow, please feel free to make of this whatever you will, respond or ignore as the mood strikes you, and if you have any questions do not hesitate to ask!)

[The Reborn British Empire]

Buckingham Palace
London, England
Friday 16th March 2018, 2130hrs Local Time

“So, let me get this straight,” Sebastian said as he and the King returned to Buckingham Palace after their jaunt to Northwood Headquarters. “You want to throw out hundreds of years of constitutional convention.”

“Essentially, yes,” William nodded.

“You do realise this will cause a constitutional crisis,” Sebastian warned. “You’re betting everything, including potentially the future of the Monarchy itself on the people supporting you.”

“I am, but I think the odds are in my favour,” William replied.

“Oh, dear friend, please do tell.”

“Firstly, and perhaps most importantly, I think the people are fed up of minority government after minority government, and a new general election every year as politicians manoeuvre to try and gain a slim majority,” William stated firmly. “We both know that even my father’s approval rating was higher than any politicians, and mine is higher than even his, I truly believe that if I recommend someone to the people they’ll approve.”

William paused as they climbed the grand staircase to the second floor.

“Moreover, I am not proposing that every election going forwards will be a rubber-stamping exercise for my choice, rather I intend to ensure that there is either a majority government or a firm and official coalition,” William continued. “In the event of neither being present, I do not think it unreasonable for the Sovereign to recommend his own choice to the people, my doing so will sway a lot of people and provide a way forward.”

“What if, in a hypothetical future election, the people decide not to approve your choice in such circumstances, what happens then?” Sebastian questioned. “You’d have set yourself up for a very public, and very political fall, and that could cause all manner of problems, the Monarchy has survived by remaining apolitical.”

“We would deal with that when it came down to it by remembering that, at the end of the day, this is a constitutional monarchy we have here,” William replied honestly. “That being said, I intend to set a precedent that, in such cases, the Sovereign would chose a neutral candidate likely to be able to achieve victory in any case.”

“Besides, it is my firm hope that, if we can prove the value of a strong majority government again we will start to encourage voting which results in majority governments going forwards.”

“So for this ‘neutral candidate’ you choose me?” Sebastian frowned. “I’m a Conservative Member of Parliament.”

“Yes, but you are also a moderate; you are sufficiently liberal on social matters that those Labour voters more to the right would be swayed towards you, with my encouragement,” William explained. “Likewise, hypothetically, if the Labour Party got the most votes short of a majority I would appoint a moderate MP from them.”

“That makes sense, I guess,” Sebastian nodded. “But I’m also your friend, won’t people see through that?”

“I rather think that will help, in this case, it will show that I’m not appointing you for your politics, rather I’m appointing you because I trust in your ability to do the job, and do it well, and its not like I’m not giving the people a chance to confirm my choice,” William replied. “Besides, it is not exactly nepotism, you are fully qualified for the role; six years in the Royal Navy, four in Parliament, and a well-recognised name in your spars with the Defence Secretary over these last few years, people, I think, will trust you.”

“I hope you are right, my old friend,” Sebastian said wryly. “That being said, you said that was your first reason.”

“Indeed I did; the second is a result of the work done by our Lords and Ladies over the past decades; where the politicians have failed the nobility has stepped up and put their money and influence where it counts,” William replied. “In short, the people trust the nobility again, the decline in deference that we occurred in the 60s and 70s was reversed in the 80s, 90s and into the new century as Lords ensured their respectability.”

“Noblesse oblige,” Sebastian commented. “And you, as King, are the pinnacle of that principle.”

“Just so,’ William nodded.

“Alright, I concede; this might just work, might,” Sebastian frowned. “So how do we do this?”

“We let this election play out to its inevitable conclusion, a hung parliament, likely with your dear leader still holding the largest number of seats but well short of a majority, as always,” William replied, the tone of his voice clearly indicating his distaste. “He’ll come here to request to form a government, and I’ll refuse him; I’ll then immediately go on TV, before he can put his spin on it, and name you as my Prime Minister, so you’ll have to stay close so I can actually ask you.”

“Then what?”

“Then we have another full election; you lay out your platform and you, by gods good grace, win the damn thing and, for the first time in decades, we have a majority government and can actually make progress,” William said simply. “I know the kind of things that you think we need to be doing, and I know a lot of people agree with you, and you’ll have my full support, even if I take a step back publicly I want to be involved.”

“Of course,” Sebastian nodded. “You are my King.”

“Good, let’s hope the others see it the same way,” William commented wryly.

Now back in the comfort of a sitting room in Buckingham Palace the two men talked long into the night about exactly how this would go down. The most important thing for both of them was maintaining as much of the democratic process as possible; neither man wanted to overthrow Parliament and have the country run solely by the King, and yet at the same time neither of them wanted British politics to remain quagmired as it had been for so long. It was only by dumb luck and change that the British Government had not been required to fight a war under such conditions, likely due in no small part to one of the few successes in British politics, the adequate funding of a powerful Royal Navy, and Royal Air Force and a competent British Army, as should be the case for Britain regardless. Indeed the only good thing about the lack of dramatic political upheaval was that, up until this point, the economy had been able to flourish without worrying about make volatility. Ensuring strong support for the economy going forwards would, therefore, be one of the top priorities of Sebastian’s government going forwards.

The British Constitution, unwritten as it was, had been built over the last few centuries to emphasise that the Sovereign had the right to be consulted, the right to encourage and the right to warn, but the expectation was that the Sovereign stay out of political affairs. And indeed this was very much the kind of framework that William and Sebastian were considering. William would not get involved in matters that were purely party-political, that was not his role, rather he would break the stalemate in Parliament, by appointing a moderate from the strongest party and, most importantly, returning his recommendation to the electorate. He would also, subtly at first, exercise his influence on matters of foreign policy and national security; those, in the new system the two men were envisioning, would be the concern of both the Sovereign and the Prime Minister. In short the desire was to ensure that there was both stability, in the form of the Sovereign, and democratic representation, in the form of the Prime Minister, in matters of the national interest. All things considered William, who detested politics and only paid it any attention due to his position, was more than happy to keep his nose out of politics.

Truth be told William did not truly want any of the power that came with his Crown, had his father lived longer he would have been perfectly content in continuing his naval career; perhaps the thing that he would miss most about his life before the Crown. This, of course, did William great credit; the fact that he did not want the power that was thrust upon him ensured that he would never abuse it, and made him the ideal trailblazer for this new vision of monarchy.

Hyde Park
London, England
Friday 16th March 2018, 1120hrs Local Time

The morning was chilly, crisp as Malcolm Phillips made his way into Hyde Park, the largest of the four Royal Parks in London. He had made his way here from central London via the Underground, emerging at Hyde Park Corner and completing his trip on foot. Philips was grateful for the woollen overcoat he wore over his suit for it was cold to say the least, even in the sun. He had been less than pleased when he had arrived at work to be told that he had to go out to meet a contact at Hyde Park, but then such were the requirements of the service all too often. For Phillips was an Officer of the Security Service, more popularly known by the public as MI5, and he was meeting one of the vast network of agents, contacts and sources that provided the Security Service with a full and detailed picture of what was happening in London. It was very difficult for something to happen in a public place, or even semi-public, without the Security Service hearing about it in due course.

As he approached his destination he saw the contact waiting for him, a middle aged gentleman who looked distinguished with his slowly greying hair. From the hurried briefing Phillips had received on his way out of Thames House that morning the man was an employee at Holland Park Lawn Tennis Club, a private members club, and had witnessed an incident which he believed would be of use to the Security Service. Of course that was entirely the reason why the Security Service paid him a retainer, small enough to be subtle but enough to be worth his while, to keep an eye out for anything of interest between the high-flying, high-ranked individuals that tended to patronise such places. Philips sat down on the bench alongside the gentleman and, after a few moments, commented;

“The ducks are quiet today.”

“Too cold for them,” The man replied, gesturing to the nearby lake. “The water is almost frozen over.”

“Indeed,” Philips agreed. “Good Morning Geoffrey.”

“Good Morning, Mister Jones,” Geoffrey replied with a nod, it was not of course Philips’ actual surname.

“What do you have for me?”

“I overheard an interesting conversation today,” Geoffrey commented. “After another of Graf von Antell’s outbursts.”

Philips rolled his eyes and leant back into the bench at the thought. As he was a political exile from another country, currently sheltering under a legal visa in the United Kingdom, the Security Service kept tabs on Magnus Gideon von Antell, as it did all other individuals of any note, particularly in London. However between the decline in importance of his ancient throne and, of course, the man’s temperament in any event, the Security Service was not prepared to waste good money on a lost cause. So they relied on their network of men, and women, like Geoffrey to keep an eye on the common haunts of such generally harmless, if nominally important, individuals, and to report back if any of interest came through their patches. This freed up the Security Service’s other resources to handle more important matters.

“Go on,” Philips said simply.

“A man turned up to Holland Park requesting to speak to the Count, however given the state of, shall we say distress, that the detestable young man was in he was met by one of his retainers, a Miss Keyserling,” Geoffrey explained. “The man had a military bearing if ever I’ve seen one, but he didn’t feel like a Gandvian diplomat, indeed if I had to read Miss Keyserling I’d say she was surprised, and they don’t exactly get many visitors.”

“What did they say?”

“That I don’t know, I’m afraid Mr Jones, Miss Keyserling took him off somewhere down the road, although I’m sure you could pick her at least up on CCTV, she was still wearing her tennis clothing,” Geoffrey replied, almost apologetically. “I would have followed, but I was not exactly inconspicuous myself in my Holland Park uniform and all, and no offence Mister Jones, but your lot don’t pay me enough to be playing spy.”

“Indeed we do not, you did the right thing,” Phillips nodded. “We’ll be able to get them on CCTV easily enough, and we should be able to get a positive ID from your own CCTV, so tell Frank in Security I’ll be by.”

“I will do,” Geoffrey nodded.

“Good, now keep your eyes out for anything else happening around the Count, particularly if it is out of the ordinary, because it sounds like something is afoot and if that is going to go down in England, or even in any of our possessions overseas, we need to know about it,” Philips said firmly. “Don’t be surprised if you see some lot of new faces around Holland Park, we’re going to have to step our own end of all of this, but we’ll still be relying on you to do your bit for King and Country… but I’ll make sure we put a little extra in your account too.”

“Anything for His Majesty,” Geoffrey grinned.

“Indeed,” Philips said standing. “Good day to you.”

“And you, Sir.”

[The Reborn British Empire]

HM Dockyard Portsmouth
Hampshire, England
Saturday 17th March 2018, 0900hrs Local Time

Under normal circumstances upon the death of the Monarch the new King would embark upon a whistle-stop tour of the four regions that make up the United Kingdom; England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, to meet with key figures in the devolved governments of those regions. And indeed, despite his grief, this was precisely what William intended to do, however his orders at Northwood the previous night had put into motion events that meant that tens of thousands of British servicemen and women were being activated to defend against the possibility of a foe taking advantage of the gut punch to the British psyche (and that of her Empire, of whom the late King was beloved). For the Royal Navy this meant putting to sea pretty much every ship that was not in refit or otherwise indisposed; many of these would be deployed as required by the Flag Officers Commanding the Home Commands, but there was one unit of the RN Home Fleet that was designed for just such an eventuality; the Response Force Task Group (RFTG), intended to be maintained on high readiness in Home Waters to respond to a crisis, or to deploy in support of the UK Task Force.

The Response Force Task Group was centred around the Aircraft Carrier Illustrious, and it was this that had brought the new King, and his immediate family, to the Round Tower of Portsmouth to watch as the Illustrious and her battle group got underway. Serving as a pilot aboard the Illustrious was His Royal Highness The Duke of Cornwall, who would in due course be created Prince of Wales, or in other words; William’s eldest son and the heir apparent; George. The twenty-four year old had followed his father into the Royal Navy and had elected to embrace his love of flying, and his desire to fly combat despite the objections of the British establishment, by joining as a pilot in the Fleet Air Arm, flying the Sea Typhoon FGR.4. William’s orders the night before to put to sea had included his son, and he had no intention of pulling any strings to get his son out of the deployment; after all British Royals serving in the Armed Forces was a long-standing tradition and that meant, potentially, risking their lives, even if all reasonable measures were taken to avoid such risks where possible.

King William, wearing naval uniform, and Queen Susanne, in mourning dress, were joined on the Round Tower by their second son, the twenty-year old Prince Edward, who was wearing the uniform of an Officer Cadet in the British Army due to his membership in the Cambridge University Officer Training Corps, and their twenty-second year old daughter, Princess Elizabeth, who was wearing the uniform of a Flying Officer in the Royal Air Force where she was undertaking flight training herself. Their only remaining offspring, the sixteen year old Prince Stephen, was absent having been taken ill over the past few days. Around them were various military officers and local dignitaries, ranging from the Admiral Superintendent of Portsmouth Dockyard to the Mayor of Portsmouth, all watching as the latest of the ships stationed at Portsmouth to get underway. Already one of the Illustrious’ escorts, a Type-45 Destroyer, had slipped her moorings and got underway, whilst the Illustrious herself was being carefully guided out of harbour by several tugs, with the distinctive form of another Type-45 Destroyer just visible in the morning fog.

Illustrious and the two destroyers would rendezvous with the four frigates that made up the rest of the peacetime escort for the Carrier off Lizards Point; the frigates making their way down from their own base at Plymouth. The Response Force Task Group was under orders to position itself in the Celtic Sea, moving away from the confined waters of the English Channel, in order to be able to respond quickly and decisively to any threat against the United Kingdom. Despite his fury at the UK Government’s complete failure to take proactive measures to ensure its own security, the King did not really except that anyone would try anything at this point; by all accounts his father had, regretfully, succumbed to cancer rather than to the nefarious actions of a foreign power. No, William suspected that the most likely cause for any concern would be far further afield, either in one of the colonies or elsewhere in the rest of the world. There were reasons, after all, why he had included in his orders the ships on foreign service ordering them either to their home stations or to their hotspots to be ready to respond to any issues that might arise as a result of the death of the King.

All things considered the British Empire was in good shape.

The various small islands in the Caribbean, those that had not elected to go it alone anyway, were doing well enough under their devolved administrations overseen by British Governors, and were protected principally by the West Indies Station of the Royal Navy which had several small bases in the region. The Dominion of South Africa was doing well; the political influence of the British had neutered the racial tensions, either by uniting both against their British overlords or by preventing the most extreme opinions from not gaining any traction in the Dominion government due to the involvement of the British Governor-General. The Crown Colonies of Hong Kong and Singapore were prospering as centres of commerce and trade in the far east, the lynchpin of British power and influence in the region they were, on their own, formidable quasi-states whose status was only enhanced by their links to Britain, which was principally responsible for defence and foreign affairs whilst the locals handled domestic matter with almost no involvement by the British Governor beyond serving as a figurehead for domestic matters whose real power was centred around their protection and security.

If there was one part of the Empire that the new King was really concerned about it was Malaysia. The Malay Peninsular was something of a political hodgepodge; there were the independent straits settlements of course, and there was the body of staunchly pro-British part which had come together as the Federated Malay States, a British Dominion, but there were also half a dozen semi-independent Malay States that were British protectorates but did not consider themselves part of the FMS. Under ideal circumstances they would, as was the long term plan of the Foreign and Colonial Office, come together was one Dominion of Malaysia, however the FCO had maintained a staunchly cautious policy in Malaysia rather than risk a crisis. It was something that William did not want to go on forever, and was hopeful that if his plan to appoint Sebastian as his Prime Minister succeeded it would be something they would be able to get sorted going forwards, but it was not an immediate concern. If there was one thing that concerned William it was the former British Colony of Ceylon (or Sri Lanka as some liked to call it, although the name had not caught on).

Ceylon had declared independence from the British several decades before, and had had nothing but trouble ever since. The island had been beset by political issues from the start and it had not been long before these issues had escalated into a full blown civil war for control. Where the British had been fully prepared to launch military retaliation, and had a clear superiority in terms of firepower, the two sides of the civil war were effectively evenly matched and as such neither side was prepared to back down. The British Government supported the Ceylon Government, if for no other reason than the rebels had an awful tendency to turn to piracy to help fund their struggle. The Royal Navy’s Singapore Squadron had taken the lead in protecting the international shipping lanes from the Ceylon Rebels, and the rebels had largely avoided hitting large, international, shipping, especially when a Royal Navy frigate was only a radio call away for ships of any nation (but particularly the large volume of British Merchant Navy ships that passed through the region on their way to the East Indies). Occasionally the Rebels got bored of hitting smaller, coastal traders, and went after larger prey. Each time the Ceylon rebels in question had been blown out of the water by a British Warship, and the port they had operated from had been subjected to a bombardment or airstrike to put an end to rebel naval activities, at which point the situation settled down again until someone forgot the lesson that the British had taught their compatriots.

However, as someone who had spent a number of years in the Far East Fleet, William saw the very real potential for major escalation in Ceylon and the threat it would pose to British interests in the East Indies. There was a reason the Far East Task Group was steaming with orders to position itself in the Indian Ocean; just in case. It was, or so anyone with a heart reverently hoped, all much ado about nothing. Putting dozens of ships, hundreds of aircraft and hundreds of thousands of men and women on alert was a massive undertaking, but the potential damage that could be done if they had not done so and were attached was unthinkable. Besides, as someone with a military background William knew all too well the old military adage of ‘hurry up and wait’.

The Illustrious was slowly disappearing into The Solent, followed a short time after by the second Type-45 Destroyer that followed its larger charge out of harbour, when the new King turned his attention away from his departing son and back to matters at hand. He was due to commence his tour of the United Kingdom immediately, indeed the Royal Train was already waiting at Portsmouth Station to get him underway. Deep down he wished he had had more time to come to terms with his father’s death, and the impact it was having on his own children and the wider family, but the Crown waited for no man and he had duties and responsibilities that he had to get started with almost immediately.

East Indiaman Jewel of the East
Indian Ocean, South West of Ceylon
Saturday 17th March 2018, 1700hrs Local Time

The East India Trading Company (EITC) had a long and Illustrious history within the United Kingdom and the British Empire; although it had also had its fair share of pitfalls and far less Illustrious episodes in its long existence. Ultimately though the Company had endured, adapting to changing circumstances and adopting new methods of doing business. The Company had suffered greatly upon losing its monopoly on East Indies trade, but had instead focused on becoming more competitive, and as such remained the largest British trading company by gross revenue and dominated, but not monopolised, British trade east of Suez.

Such was the prestige and lustre of the name that the ships of the East India Trading Company retained their famous name ‘East Indiamen’, and were some of the most heavily armed civilian ships in the British Merchant Navy. Given the importance of trade to the survival and prosperity of the United Kingdom, and its Empire, the British had long favoured two complimentary methods of protecting its trade; a large and powerful Royal Navy and equipping its merchant ships with sufficient weapons to fend off most attacks not perpetrated by a nation-state. Most ships satisfied themselves with small arms, or general purpose machine guns at most, all of which could be dismounted to avoid local issues when the ships came alongside, but the East Indiamen flaunted 20mm auto cannons fore and aft, all manned by former Royal Navy gunners. There was a reason why attacks on East Indiamen were few and far between, and those that did occur had a tendency to end violently to say the least.

The Jewel of the East was the Company flagship, the largest and most modern of the Company’s trading fleet, typically found more often representing the Company wherever they were trying to get new contracts or new trade agreements. At the moment, however, she was on the Southampton-Hong Kong route, a profitable route to say the least. It was true that Singapore was the military heart of the British Empire in Southeast Asia but Hong Kong was, without a doubt, the economic and trade hub upon which the British presence and influence was based. The route took her through the Straits of Malacca, stopping in Singapore, before turning northwards into the South China Sea and on to Hong Kong. On the evening of the 17th March, as the British Navy put to sea all over the world, the Jewel of the East was continuing her trip; the only indication that anything was different was that her ensign was flying at the tip from the mainmast, in respect to the death of the King, and that as per the most recent Admiralty Signal to Merchants (ASM, the Royal Navy’s principle method of co-ordinating global security activities of the Merchant Navy) her gun crews were stood-to whilst passing within one hundred nautical miles of any land.

Such was the case as the Jewel of the East began her transit just under a hundred nautical miles south of the old British Colony of Ceylon, or Sri Lanka as it was now known by everyone (except the British). Granted independence several decades ago the former Colony had not done well to say the least. The various factions that had united to oppose the British had been unable to remain united after independence and civil strife had beleaguered the colony ever since; the rebels just too strong for the Government to be able to effectively wipe them out and the government too strong for the rebels to be able to win their struggle. Despite the best efforts of the British Foreign Office the situation had continued to deteriorate, and occasionally the situation boiled over and began to effect local shipping. The Royal Navy’s East Indies Station maintained a decent presence around Sri Lanka as a matter of course, and these threats to local shipping did not tend to last long. The major elements based at Singapore would then put to sea, bombard rebel positions for a bit to remind them the cost of attacking shipping, any shipping would bring about a response but especially British, before returning home. The rebels would remember their lesson for a while before needing to be retaught.

This had been going on for decades now, and the political stalemate in London had prevented a more firm approach from being adopted, which combined with the fact that the attacks were never too serious meant that nothing had been done, and the situation had rumbled on and on and on for at least the last thirty years.

Never the less the Master of the Jewel of the East, Captain Simon Barnes, a retired Royal Navy officer, made it a point of being on the bridge himself whenever his ship was passing close by any territory mentioned in an ASM. A warfare officer by trade, Barnes had commanded several frigates and destroyers before being passed over for promotion on account of his choice of wife; the daughter of an Admiral who had come to the conclusion that he was not good enough for her. The East India Company, always eager to snap up experienced naval officers to command their East Indiamen, had reached out to Barnes within a day of the promotion list, without his name on it, being released with an offer of service in its trading fleet. Unable to come to terms with being relegated to a desk job for the rest of his now stunted career Barnes, who still retained a Royal Naval Reserve commission, had accepted the offer and handed in his resignation from the Royal Navy the following day. It wasn’t quite the same, of course, but the Company ran its fleet in a paramilitary fashion, to be expected given the ships armaments, so it was good enough for him.

“Got three small contacts approaching on radar, Skipper,” The Officer of the Watch called, pulling Barnes from thoughts. “Bearing zero one zero, range thirty nautical miles, CBDR.”

Barnes frowned and moved out onto one of the bridge wings bringing the binoculars hanging around his neck up to his eyes. Sure enough, almost out of sight, were a group of three, fast-moving, craft that seemed to be heading directly for the East Indiamen. Given their bearing their only possible source was Ceylon; the disorganised mess on the Indian Subcontinent was too fragmented to be able to put together anything inside its own borders, let alone beyond. This didn’t sit well with Barnes; surely not even the Ceylon Rebels would attack an East Indiamen; it was well known that ships of the East India Company were some of the best armed civilian ships on the high seas. He had not made a career out of not trusting his gut, so he reached down to pick up the nearest mic to the ship wide pipe.

“Do you hear there, Captain speaking; we have three unknown fast-movers heading our way, not squawking on AIS, I am assuming hostile intent,” Barnes said grimly as he kept his eyes locked on the incoming craft, determined not to lose them in the haze. “Gun crews stand-to, damage control and medical parties report to your stations, all hands standby for emergency action, this is no drill.”

As he finished speaking the Officer of the Watch slammed his fist into the button to activate the alarm for Emergency Stations; the equivalent of Action Stations in the Royal Navy, and a klaxon began to wail all over the ship. By the time that all of his officers were reporting to him on the status of their departments the incoming contacts were far closer and his decision to call the ship to emergency stations was vindicated, for mounted on the forward hulls of those craft were hefty looking machine guns, .50 cal Barnes suspected. Unfortunately the rules of engagement in which an East Indiamen, or indeed any British merchant ship, could make use of its embarked weapons to defend itself, and that included being fired upon first, or being in imminent danger of damage that would pose a threat to the ship that meant that he could not afford to wait. Although they would do significant damage, those .50 cals were not going to sink the ship, so he had to wait.

Barnes kept a close eye on the incoming boats, looking for any sign of something more dangerous. He knew that the gun crews would be tracking those craft, as would the EITC Security Force men manning the machine guns and lined up along the port beam with their small arms, ready to fire at his order. His heart skipped a beat as he saw men appear from the inside of each of the three craft, all hefting the distinctive silllounte of an RPG; now those could pose an imminent damage, East Indiamen were not armoured and RPGs could theoretically penetrate the hull and sink them, especially if enough were fired.

“Open fire,” Barnes ordered into the shipwide.

Two things happened almost at the same time. The machine guns of the threatening craft opened fire, swaying back and forth across the long, high beams of the East Indiaman; the rebels manning the guns were seemingly not the best trained as rather than compensating for the momentum of their craft they were just going with it and spraying shots all over the place. At the same time the 20mm auto cannon on the port quarter tracked the leading craft and let loose several bursts of fire, zeroing in on the target in seconds and knocking it out. As the other two craft continued to fire their machine-guns, and the EITC Security Force men opened fire with their own personal weapons, the two rebels with RPGs now fired; one missed entirely but the second struck the East Indiamen in the bows, fortunately well clear of the waterline. Over the next sixty seconds, as the defensive guns of the East Indiaman worked on taking out the two remaining targets the two rebel boats did their best to complete their task; a second RPG went high, taking out one of the navigational radar before its launcher was taken out. The final craft manoeuvred towards the stern, most likely to try and take out the engine room compartments and cripple the ship, likely allowing more rebel craft to come and try to seize the ship.

The rebels were able to fire a final RPG, but it hit a good few meters too high and the craft soon disappeared in an explosion as the rounds from the two aft autocaneosn ripped it to shreds.

“Damage report,” Barnes ordered crisply. “And someone find out where the nearest RN warship is.”

It was a couple of minutes, as was to be expected, before a full damage report could be made. As it happened the damage, whilst expensive, was not anything that posed a threat to the ship, or its ability to get safely to a friendly port; even without the navigational radar they could navigate the old fashioned way. The nearest warship was only a few hours away, and after receiving the report signalled that it would steam towards the area to keep an eye on Ceylon, and had reported the situation to the Admiralty. As the Jewel of the East began its journey to Singapore for repairs, the King’s wish for a transition without challenges had just gone down the drain as Ceylon would soon become the most talked aboard word in Whitehall.

[The Reborn British Empire]

Downing Street
London, England
Thursday 5th April 2018, 0900hrs Local Time

Despite the seriousness of an attack on a British-flagged merchant ship, and an East Indiaman at that, there had been no overt and direct response to the Ceylon Incident, as it was becoming known, for over two weeks, aside from the Eastern Fleet putting to sea in force in the Indian Ocean south of Ceylon. That wasn’t to say that it wasn’t being talked about. The King had broken with tradition and insisted that the General Election go ahead as planned and, as expected, the initial general election had resulted in a hung parliament and, as intended, the King had refused to except a minority government and had instead appointed Sebastian Lawrence as Prime Minister. This move shook the country, but YouGov polls immediately after had gone strongly in the King’s favour and a rapid-fire election period had followed as Lawrence, suddenly backed by his Conservative party backers, who saw the way the wind was blowing, faced off against the closest thing to the incumbent Prime Minister that existed, given that legally speaking Lawrence was the Prime Minister after being appointed by the King. The Ceylon Incident took centre stage in the national discourse as Lawrence favoured a proactive response whilst his Labour opponent favoured conciliation.

Lawrence had made it fundamentally clear that, if elected, one of his first orders would be for a full scale retaliation against the Ceylon Rebels and, if deemed necessary, he would be prepared to consider a full-scale invasion and annexation of the former colony if that was what it took to resolve the situation. Such a firm, unequivocal and decisive stance was in stark contrast to what the British public was used to but was not one that the majority of them opposed, and the polls had swung firmly in Lawrence’s favour and consistently remained that way. In Ceylon itself there was a significant amount of unrest; in addition to the Rebels two factions had formed as a result of ‘the Lawrence Declaration’; one that favoured a return to British rule, which was not unsubstantial due to the fact that it would, at last, bring an end to political unrest and fighting that had plagued the country, and one that was opposed to such a return. It was determined that both the rebels and the government (and their supporters) would likely oppose a British Invasion militarily, but there was a majority in the middle-ground that the British could win over.

All things considered the results of the second General Election were a foregone conclusion, and no one was surprised when the results had resulted in a Conservative majority. It was not a landslide as such, but after such a prolonged period of stalemate it was a massive shift and it was certainly a healthy majority with which to govern. Lawrence had made his way to Buckingham Palace to formally kiss hands with the King whom had asked him (again) to form a Government in his name, to which Lawrence had, of course, accepted. It was with great anticipation that the British and world media assembled outside Downing Street after Lawrence’s return; waiting for the new Prime Minister to give his first speech to the nation, as was traditional. As it was Lawrence took some time to compose himself and made the media aware that he would make a speech at 9am, some thirty minutes after his return to Downing Street. As such the public, with some forewarning, gathered around televisions in offices, public places and homes to see the beginning of what many felt was the start of a new era.

Exactly at the turn of the hour Lawrence appeared from the world favour black door and made his way towards the podium.

“I have just been to see His Majesty The King at Buckingham Palace and with his blessing, and the support of the British People, I will now form a Conservative majority Government in the name of the King; the first majority government in thirty-six years,” Lawrence said confidently. “This great nation of ours has suffered through decades of stalemate, indecision and a paralysis of leadership… that ends today, and I am confident that what my Government will achieve will ensure such paralysis never happens again, no matter the party in charge.”

“His Majesty took a great political, constitutional and personal risk in order to end the political stalemate, and I am sure that he will be gratified, as I am, by you, the British people, in supporting his choice in me as his Prime Minister, to lead us forward, together. For that is at the heart of my agenda for my Premiership; whilst we might all disagree on some matters, and no doubt we’ll have fierce disagreements, arguments and debates, I am confident that we agree on far more than we disagree and it is in that spirit that we move forwards.”

Lawrence paused.

“I do not care if you are black, white, asian or arab, or anything in between, I do not care if you are straight, homosexual, bisexual or transexual, I do not care if you were born here or if you are a friend or cousin from across the Empire; I care that you are British,” Lawerence said firmly. “This Great Britain of ours is capable of great things, our history is evidence enough of that; when we are of one national vision, and in this I include our Empire, beyond the seas, for we stand and fall together and whilst the Empire may be British, I would not say that it was not all our Empire, from the ivoried streets of Whitehall to the bright lights of Hong Kong and Singapore.”

“The age of disunity and distraction is over; it is only through the grace of god that has held the British Empire together, and the tireless work of tens of thousands of men and women across the home, foreign and colonial civil services, but all of us, from England to South Africa, were held together by one simple belief; that we are stronger together then we ever could be apart, that does not change. We will work together to strength the bonds between our nations, whilst respecting the autonomy and devolution enjoyed by our dominions beyond the seas. We will work together to solve the issues that plague parts of the Empire; from domestic struggles here in the UK to the fragmented political situation in Malaya; between us we surely have a solution to all the challenges that face us.”

Lawrence paused meaningfully.

“Given my rhetoric throughout the campaign it would be remiss of me to not address the Ceylon Incident; as you are all aware several weeks ago the East Indiamen Jewel of the East was attacked by three craft which our intelligence services have confirmed to have originated in the rebel-held parts of the former British Colony of Ceylon,” Lawrence said grimly. “Where once we would only have had the consensus in Parliament for a punitive strike and delaying managing the issue, I have gone on record as advocating a real and lasting solution to the situation on Ceylon; the last decades have proven beyond a doubt that the political situation in Ceylon is far too fragmented for an internal solution.”

“Therefore, a short time ago I directed the Chief of the Defence Staff to prepare an operational plan for an invasion and annexation of the Republic of Sri Lanka, in order to effect a settlement which will be acceptable to both factions, and the majority of the population caught in the middle and suffering as a result. Once this state has been achieved Ceylon, as it will revert to being called as that was the last name under which the island was unified, will be granted the same status of South Africa; that of a British Dominion and allowed significant latitude of self-governance. HIs Majesty’s Government has no desire to dominate the people of Ceylon, but we will no longer tolerate an unstable situation which boils over periodically; it ends, and it ends now. Further details will be realised after military operations have commenced, but for the moment the details of the operation will be kept strictly classified for operational security reasons.

The gathered media watched in stunned silence, but there was a lot of exchanged glances. By revealing his intent the Prime Minister was giving the ‘enemy’ time to prepare, but it was also giving the silent majority; the middle ground in Ceylon, a chance to take stock of the situation and, the hope was, to come round to the entire of peace, stability and prosperity under British rule as opposed to war, instability and poverty under their own rule. Even the least educated in Ceylon would have to know that neither their military, nor the rebels, could withstand an assault by the British Armed Forces, and as such British rule was an inevitability, not a possibility. Short an effort by a foreign power to intervene, but as British naval power had largely kept their shipping safe from the violence in Ceylon, such an intervention seemed unlikely, although doubtless there would be contingencies in place.

“The day of being distracted by trivialities whilst the house burns down are over; from this day forth we, British and Imperial subjects alike, will take a firm grasp of our challenges and problems and we will solve them together. It is not without a certain degree of excitement that I invoke the old Imperial rallying cry; ‘Advance Britannia!’, as we carry that standard forward together. God Bless you all, whether at home or across the Empire, and God Save the King!”

70 Whitehall (The Cabinet Office)
London, England
Thursday 5th April 2018, 1500hrs Local Time

It was not the first time that Lawerence had stopped into the Cabinet Officer Briefing Rooms, for as Shadow Secretary of Defence he had often been invited to various high-level meetings in Briefing Room A (which had given rise to such meetings being known as the COBRA Committee), but it was the first time that he took his seat at the head of the table. He had given the Defence Staff six hours to dust off their plans for an invasion of Ceylon, adjust them to the current situation and to present the options. He had emphasised the importance of limiting the collateral damage; after all although the invasion would proceed in any case, it would be far preferable if they could avoid making more enemies for themselves as they would likely face an insurgency from both the rebel and pro-government factions in the immediate aftermath of the invasion. Overcoming such an insurgency relied on the support of the people, and it was too late to start trying to win hearts and minds after you’d already bombed their towns and cities into oblivion. Rather the strikes would be surgical but effective, to ensure that land fighting too was kept to a minimum and as far away from the population centres as possible.

Lawerence shook hands with his newly-appointed Secretary of State for Defence, Adam Caldwell, a former British Army officer with a proven track record as the Ministry of Defence he was well respected and competent. He took his place beside Lawerence as the other attendees took their seats and they turned to the Chief of the Defence Staff, Admiral of the Fleet Sir Timothy Wilson, who was delivering the briefing on behalf of the Defence Staff.

“Good Morning Prime Minister, Secretary of State, ladies and gentlemen; at the request of the PM the Defence Staff has been revising and updating our operational plan for an invasion and annexation of the former British Colony of Ceylon, in order to bring a final stop to the ongoing violence on that island,” Sir Timothy said firmly, bringing up an image of Ceylon from above. “This Operation, codename Aquarius, will have three principle phases; the initial phase will involve the neutralising of the enemy government’s air and naval defences, ensuring that we have full freedom to conduct our activities going forward, this will be followed by degrading the enemy land forces, both government and rebel, using surgical strikes followed by a general ground invasion to take full control.”

Sir Timothy paused, bringing up an annotated image showing the various positions of known enemy positions.

“The enemy air and naval forces are not significant, but we expect them to make an effort to bloody our nose to make us think twice; we anticipate the enemy navy, such as it is, putting to sea to oppose us; consisting of six British-built Roussen-Class fast attack craft and maybe two dozen smaller former-RN Castle-class OPVs ” Sir Timothy continued. “The Singapore Squadron of the East Indies Station is already in the operational area and can be ordered to engage the enemy on your order, although the missiles on those FACs could cause an issue, we expect the defences of the warships to be sufficient to ensure minimal to no casualties on our side.

Sir Timothy paused again.

“In terms of combat-capable aircraft the enemy air force does not possess much of note beyond a twelve-strong squadron of British Aerospace Hawks, but they are principally designed for ground attack in support of the actions against the rebels, however they’ll need taking out before we land troops in any case; our current operational assumption is that the Eastern Task Force, centred around the Aircraft Carrier Indomitable will launch sorties to that effect,” Sir Timothy explained. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, the vast majority of the military equipment fielded by the government forces was provided by the British Government in an effort to suppress the rebels previously, and whilst it may be frustrating to have to destroy them it does at least mean that we are intimately familiar with the ships and aircraft we are facing, and enables us to know exactly what we need to bring to the table to provide an unmatchable advantage.”

Lawerence nodded thoughtfully as he considered the first stage of the operation. The Eastern Task Force was the principle operational formation available to the Flag Officer Commanding, Eastern Fleet, directly rather than to one of his subordinates and was intended for exactly this sort of operation. At least check the Indomitable had been sat at Singapore Dockyard awaiting orders, and could be in the area of operations on pretty short notice. The Singapore Squadron itself, which fell under the command of the Flag Officer, East Indies, had taken the lead in securing the area and the ships of the squadron; one cruiser, one destroyer, two frigates and four sloops, would be more than sufficient to take out the small enemy naval forces. Likely once this was complete they would be relieved on-station by the Indomitable and her escorts, there was no need to keep two major formations tied up when there would be no further threat to speak off, especially as the Singapore Squadron might be needed to face off against foreign interlopers after rearming at Singapore.

“Timeframe?” Lawrence queried.

“There is an enemy surface force just inside their territorial limit south of the island, we believe this to constitute the bulk of their available surface assets, they could engage on your order,” Sir Timothy replied. “The Indomitable and her group have just resupplied in Singapore and are on immediate notice to sail; they could be on-station to the south-east of Ceylon within thirty-six hours.”

“I want the Singapore Squadron to give that enemy surface group a chance to surrender, I will not have us take part in cold-blooded murder; this is war, but let's see if we can’t be decent about it,” Lawrence said firmly. “Let’s get the orders for those ships to get underway now, I don’t want to waste a moment… now, onto the next phase of the campaign… what do you have in mind?”

“Our initial plan calls for two days of air strikes from Indomitable, we’re thinking over the weekend given the timings of all this, that should give us enough time to take out everything we need to, and to do so safely without risking damage to civilian areas,” Sir Timothy replied. “We’ll keep the air campaign going as we move onto the next stage, but we want to have taken out the enemy communications and command infrastructure, as well as key surface to air sites and concentrations of enemy armour if we can.”

“Do we anticipate being able to launch the third stage by Monday?” Lawerence frowned. “Where is the nearest Amphibious Group?”

“In home waters, unfortunately, and it would take them quite some time to get out there, so we’re proposing to activate 16 Air Assault Brigade and conduct a combat drop into Ceylon,” Sir Timothy replied simply. “As part of the Joint Reaction Force the brigade can deploy within seventy-two hours, we would stage them out of Diego Garcia and then conduct the drop on Monday before dawn.”

“A brigade drop,” Lawrence frowned. “How long has it been since they last did that outside of training?”

“A long time,” Field Marshal Sir Richard Harrington, the Chief of the Imperial General Staff, replied honestly.

“The intention is to drop the Pathfinder Platoon in a few hours earlier, they’ll confirm the landing area and secure a perimeter before we make the drop; we’ll ensure our air strikes take out anything that could threaten the drop in the immediate vicinity,” Sir Timothy added bluntly. “The drop site is a few hours TAB from a civilian aerodrome with, we believe, a battalion-sized enemy garrison; the brigade will attack the aerodrome with air support and seize the field, then we can start to bring in additional troops quickly and efficiently.”

“Where are these troops going to come from?” Lawrence queried.

“25th Infantry Brigade, from Singapore, and 28th Infantry Brigade, from Hong Kong, will deploy as soon as possible to reinforce the Paras on the ground and start to spread out and expand our perimeter, advancing as far as they can on their own initiative,” Field Marshal Harrington replied, the Chief of the Defence Staff yielding to his subordinate. “We’re also recommending that you talk with the Dominion Government in South Africa to request the use of one of their armoured divisions to provide additional on-the-ground firepower.”

Lawrence nodded thoughtfully as he considered this information. Although the Royal Navy and Royal Air Force provided naval and air assets for the entire Empire the decision had been made some years ago that although the British Army would be the largest, most capable and lead-element for ground operations that any part of the Empire granted ‘dominion status’ would raise and operate its own army. Currently, the only dominion-status territory was South Africa, everywhere else was a Crown Colony due to size and its garrison were British Army, even if they were usually raised locally. Lawrence intended that upon a unification of Malaya that it would be granted Dominion Status, and Ceylon would follow in due course. As part of the agreement the British Government could only order, in the name of the King, a Dominion army into action during a general war situation, a limited conflict like this was distinctly not that and as such Lawrence would have to request rather than demand. It was all part of the reforms that had helped keep the Empire together during the 20th Century. Fortunately, the current First Minister of South Africa, although South African born, was a former flag officer in the Royal Navy under whom Lawrence had served some years previously.

“I’m sure I can arrange that, so that makes what, one full division and enough elements to make a second,” Lawrence commented thoughtfully. “Is that enough? Doesn’t the Sri Lankan Army have something like twelve divisions?”

“In name only, sir, the enemy divisions are principally light infantry forces with limited armour and artillery back up, they’ve been conducting a counter-insurgency for over two decades, they are ill-prepared to fight a conventional war against a major foe,” Harrington replied. “Moreover, the enemy divisions consist of three brigades of two battalions each, with each battalion only having approximately five hundred men; as such the full strength of an enemy division is approximately three thousand troops plus support.”

“Or approximately the same as a British Army brigade,” Lawrence nodded his understanding. “Ideal for flexibility fighting a rebellion, but not for major warfighting.”


“Just so, Sir,” Harrington agreed. “So we’ll have six brigades to their twelve brigade-equivalents, but our force multipliers, artillery, air support and the like, will more than makeup for that, and aside from anything else their army is suffering from years of COIN.”

“If you think that’ll be enough I’ll sign off on it, but I want additional formations placed on alert and ready to go, and I presume we’d have special forces deployed as well.”

“Yes, Prime Minister, we would look to deploy assets from both the Special Air Service and the Special Boat Service over the coming days, both to guide in the air strikes and to lay the groundwork for the Pathfinder Platoon and the main force,” Harrington explained with a nod. “We’re intending to have at least four more divisions ready to go if needed, but a lot will depend on the amount of support we get from the moderate local population, I’d rather have to bring reinforcements then alienate potential friends by overdoing it upfront.”

“That makes sense, its far easier to get the moderates to believe its a liberation, not a conquest when we haven’t totally swamped their homes with troops and tanks,” Lawerence conceded with a thoughtful nod, much would depend on hearts and minds. “Alright, well let’s get this underway, I’ll talk to the King and get his sign-off then I’ll arrange a vote in Parliament to authorise this then we can begin.”

[The Reborn British Empire]

HMS Manchester
Indian Ocean South of Ceylon
Friday 6th April 2018, 0800hrs Local Time

“Hands to action stations, hands to action stations, hands to action stations; assume damage control state one, condition Zulu; this is not a drill, hands to action stations.”

The general alarm sounded throughout the City-Class Cruiser, HMS Manchester, as she sat at the centre of the Singapore Squadron of the Royal Navy, the other ships of which were also clearing for action. The entire squadron had been on defence watches since they had arrived in the area, due to the proximity of ships of the Sri Lankan Navy, but now the half of the crew that had not been manning their battle stations now hurried to do so. As was tradition the ship’s companies of all ships had rotated through the mess hall, ensuring that al hands were well-fed before going into battle. They had received their formal orders several hours ago, following a vote in Parliament to authorise military action against Sri Lanka, but had elected to hold off on their attack until dawn; during which time they had broadcasted numerous requests for the enemy ships to strike their colours and surrender honourably and without pointless bloodshed. Those requests had been refused and as such everyone knew that a fight was coming, indeed Commodore John Heywood was surprised that the enemy had not tried to get a pre-emptive strike launched in the hope of salvaging something from this mess.

But they hadn’t, and that would prove to be their mistake.

Commodore Heywood, known by the title of Commodore, Singapore, had the Manchester, a destroyer, two frigate and four sloops at his command, whilst outnumbered by his foes he had more than an advantage in firepower. The enemy had massed their two-dozen or so Castle-Class Offshore Patrol Vessels, formally operated by the Royal Navy, ahead of their core of six Roussen-Clas fast attack craft which held the bulk of their long-range striking power. Doubtless they were intending to use the OPVs as a shield for the others to get their missiles off before being sunk, and indeed this was not a terrible strategy; after all entire Singapore Squadron only had sixty Sea Eagle Mk.3 anti-ship missiles between them. Doubtless the enemy was hoping that so many ships in such close proximity would lure in the bulk of those, leaving what leaked through to the defences of the fast attack craft to deal with. Although the latest iteration of the Sea Eagle was an advanced missile, it would struggle, as any anti-ship missile would, with so many similar targets in the terminal phase and it was likely that most of those OPVs would attract at least two missiles apiece. Even if the British ships were methodical about taking out each ship individually that would give more than enough time for the FACs to get their missiles off; it was a cold if effective strategy.

As such Commodore Heywood had determined that, one way or another, the British squadron would come under missile attack; and as such were was no point in wasting good missiles on ships that, once they had shot their load of missiles, would only be armed with guns that all of his ships except for his sloops would easily outrange and could pick-off from afar. Moreover, he was confident that the forty-eight missiles that the enemy FACs could muster, older Sea Eagle Mk.2s, would be easily defeated by his own squadron; both Manchester and the Type-45 Destroyer HMS Hostile were equipped with the highly advanced Type-1045 SAMOSN and Type-1046 S1850M radar systems, which rated amongst some of the best, if not the best, air defence radars in the world. These systems were linked to Aster-30 long-range surface to air missiles and Sea Ceptor medium-range surface to air missiles; the latter system was also carried by the two Type-23 Frigates, HM Ships Cranbrook and Ronaldshay. Indeed, Heywood suspected that the Hostile alone would have been sufficient to defend against the expected missile attack, and the warfare teams of the entire squadron had been hard at work determining the best way to conduct the air defence.

Therefore, it was Heywood’s intention to allow the enemy to launch their missile attack and then close to guns range and pick the enemy fleet apart at their leisure; even the lighter, 4.5-Inch guns of the destroyer and frigate outranged the 76mm guns carried by the FACs, much less the 30mm Autocannons carried by the OPVs, and that was without considering the heavier 6.1-Inch gun carried by the Manchester. Heywood was hoping that the enemy would surrender after upholding the honour of their flag by firing their missiles, he did not want to have to kill hundreds of sailors who could not even fight back, but he would do if they forced his hand, as regrettable as it would be.

“All ships report ready for action, Sir, we’ve got confirmed radar fixes on all enemy ships,” Captain William Holmes, the Commanding Officer of Manchester, reported crisply. “Ready to engage the enemy flotilla on your command.”

“Then the word is given,” Heywood said simply. “Take us in, Captain.”

Captain Holmes nodded and with a crisp order the Manchester began a turn to starboard, a manoeuvre mirrored by the rest of the squadron in a display of crisp, professional seamanship, onto a heading of roughly due north that would take them directly towards the enemy flotilla sat between them and their target. Sure enough this was likely the sign that the enemy had been waiting for, and the myriad of displays around the Operations Room blossomed with new contacts as the enemy ships launched a steady stream of missiles at the British squadron that had begun to bear down on them. The range was not long, so time was not exactly in a great deal of supply, but the Squadron had been fully expecting the engagement and were ready to respond.

“Confirmed forty-eight enemy missiles inbound,” The Manchester’s PWO, Principle Warfare Officer, reported crisply as the plots updated with the confirmed number. “Attention on Manchester and Hostile; engage with Aster.”

It was only a few moments later that the missile cells on Manchester and Hostile began to ripple back and forth as missiles were launched and blasted away towards the enemy. The SAMPSON multi-function air tracking radar was designed to track thousands of contacts and engage up to thirty-two at any given time, and was lauded by the Royal Navy as the benchmark when it came to defending against saturation attacks. The decision had been made in advance to split the load between the the two ships which possessed the long-range Aster-30 missiles, in some of their A-70 missile cells (168 aboard Manchester 60 aboard Hostile). The Manchester had one hundred cells allocated to Aster-30, whilst the Hostile had thirty-six allocated to Aster-30. It was therefore perhaps not surprising that the Manchester launched her full-control capability of thirty-two Aster-30 missiles, supplemented by sixteen from the Hostile in order to preserve the missile stocks of both ships.
Given that the incoming missiles were tracked from the moment they were launched, and that they were last-generation Sea Eagle Mk.2s with which the warfare officers of the Royal Navy were very familiar having only recently replaced them with Mark 3s, the air warfare officers of both ships were well prepared for controlling the interception. The missiles were designed to operate in the face of jamming and countermeasures, but the systems aboard the Mk.2 were at least a decade out of date meaning that the defensive systems aboard the British warships would be far more effective than would be the case if it was modern Mk.3s being fired at them. The missiles did, however, appear to be beginning to diverge onto dog-leg routes, no doubt intended to allow them to approach from different directions in an attempt to saturate the defences of the defending warships. Of the incoming missiles thirty-six of them were downed by the Aster missiles, leaving twelve missiles still bearing down on the British squadron; eight of those were downed by the Sea Ceptor missiles, two were taken down by CIWS and the final two were lured off course by electronic warfare and splashed harmlessly into the sea.

“All enemy missiles destroyed, Sir,” Captain Holmes reported with a smile. “Threat board is clear.”

“Very good Captain,” Heywood nodded. “Relay to all ships, engage enemy ships with guns.”

A few minutes after the last missile was destroyed the Manchester entered range for her main gun and opened fire, albeit at maximum range. Never the less her radar-guided fire control came true in short order, and the first of the enemy ships took a hit and began to founder. As the British ships surged forwards, bringing more ships into weapons range, the enemy flotilla scattered in an attempt to split the fire targeted against them. The British ships spread out in order to keep as many enemy ships in range as possible. After a few minutes of being under fire, to which they could not reply, and losing several of their number, the VHF began to get very busy as, one after the other, the enemy ships signalled their surrender. It was a hectic hour or so as the Royal Navy handled the surrender of nearly two dozen warships, rounding them up under the guns of the British ships and sent over prize crews to take command of the ships.

All told the atmosphere around the squadron was elated; they had suffered no casualties and had managed to force the surrender of a sixteen enemy warships. Aside from being a decisive tactical victory, and a key strategic step in the overall British battle plan, it also meant that there would be a significant amount of prize money to be had. The tradition of prize money was a longstanding one, which the Royal Navy had never truly got rid of, meant that everyone involved in the action was up for a big bonus in the coming weeks. The amount was determined by rank and position, meaning that Commodore Heywood would get the most, but even the lowest ranking Able Seaman would likely get several thousand pounds once the prize money was approved by the Admiralty, and by long-standing tradition prize money was un-taxable; despite period attempts by His Majesty’s Revenue and Customs to change that. The tradition was designed to encourage not only an aggressive approach but a smart one; if the enemy could be compelled to surrender rather than fight it out it saved massive amounts in terms of lives and munitions.

“Make signal to Admiralty from Commodore, Singapore,” Heywood ordered crisply. “Report our engagement, request further instructions.”

HMS Manchester
Indian Ocean South of Ceylon
Saturday 7th April 2018, 0730hrs Local Time

A little under twenty-four hours since the Action off Ceylon, as the naval engagement between the Singapore Squadron and the Sri Lankan Navy was being called, the Singapore Squadron was forming up with the ships that it had captured; the crews firmly secured aboard the British ships and the captured ships operating under prize crews. Someone had managed to find enough spare White Ensigns to outfit all the ships they had captured with a British naval ensign for their trip back to Singapore; it wasn’t technically true as the ships were not commissioned vessels of the Royal Navy, but it would be damned good for publicity when the ships sailed into Singapore. After all, this was the first British naval action in some years and, more than that, it was the first step in the first true, proactive, British military action in just as long; anyone who was doubting the resolve of the new Prime Minister, or the new King, would be proven distinctly incorrect.

And this was just the beginning.

Commodore Heywood and Captain Holmes were in their No.1 dress uniforms, the tropical whites version given their posting, and stood on the bridge wing of the Manchester looking out at their captured squadron. And, more importantly, the new ships that were arriving from the south-east. The first ship had already passed them; the Type-23 Frigate HMS Lennox, serving as an anti-submarine picket ahead of the main formation. Now coming closer, and growing larger and larger as it did so, was the distinctive form of an Aircraft Carrier; the class and operator immediately identifiable by the unique two-island design that distinguished the Queen Elizabeth-Class Carrier. His Majesty’s Ship Indomitable was one of ten such ships operated by the Royal Navy as the backbone of its global striking power. They were not the largest conceived carriers, but they were amongst the most modern and the most capable and provided the Royal Navy with untold flexibility. The Singapore Squadron had already been buzzed by the CAP (the Combat Air Patrol) but as the Indomitable closed a further pair of Sea Typhoons FGR.3s, the nasalised variant of the Eurofighter Typhoon, were catapulted from the deck and into the sky.

“They’ll be gearing up for an alpha strike, I would imagine,” Captain Holmes commented.

“One would imagine,” Heywood agreed. “They’ll want to take out what fighters the enemy has, and any shore-based anti-ship batteries, before they go after enemy SAMs, so that means stand-off missiles.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t ask us to launch cruise missiles,” Holmes frowned. “Our UAVs have managed to log most of the positions.”

“They’ll probably do it themselves, in all honesty,” Heywood explained. “Their escorts, although mostly set up for AAW, will likely have enough cruse missiles between them; then they can conduct SEAD operations.”

“I just don’t like having to leave the party early,’ Holmes grinned. “I say; signal light from Indomitable.”

Heywood glanced over and, sure enough, an Aldis lamp on the forward island of the Carrier was flashing a message to them. It was unusual, during peacetime, to conduct business solely by lamp; VHF was far more reliable and quicker. Yet this wasn’t war time, and even if Defence Intelligence had determined it unlikely that the enemy would be able to crack their communications it was good practice to communicate in a manner that would not run the risk of being intercepted and decrypted. Besides, the Royal Navy frequently exercised for operations conducted in exactly this manner, and whilst it was assumed that VHF would be available and secure in combat they were also careful to conduct OOW and tactical manoeuvres using signal lamps alone.

It wasn’t long before a communications yeoman appeared from the bridge.

“Signal from Indomitable, Sir.”

Heywood took the message board upon which the signalled message had been transcribed, smiling as he read the information before glancing up at Captain Holmes.

“From Flag Officer, Eastern Task Force; bravo Zulu on your prize haul; drinks on you in Singapore. Proceed immediately to rearm and resupply.”

“Cheeky bastard,” Holmes grinned. “Must be gutted he missed out on the prize money.”

“Indeed; yeoman make to Flag Officer from Commodore, Singapore,” Heywood. ‘Gin pennant will be flying upon your return, good hunting; Squadron will detach at zero eight hundred.”

[The Reborn British Empire]

]Regional Joint Headquarters, Far East
Diego Garcia, British Indian Ocean Territory
Monday 8th April 2018, 0345hrs Local Time

Over twenty-three hundred miles south of Ceylon, sat the isolated British holding of Diego Garcia. The atoll was home to a major British military base, officially under the administration of the Royal Air Force (as RAF Diego Garcia), that served as a key strategic base in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Once upon a time it had been inhabited by native inhabitants, however the British Government had authorised their removal some decades previous in order to ensure the security of the base. The decision had garnered some criticism, however the base was critical to the British strategic policy vis-a-vis its colonies in the Far East and as such that criticism had fallen on death ears. The base was designed to serve as an ‘unsinkable aircraft carrier’, allowing for major British forces to be stationed out of the air base in support of military operations all around the region. During normal operations RAF Diego Garcia was home to No. 19 Group, consisting of three squadrons from RAF Drone Command, providing the British Military with a long-range observation and strike capability whilst minimising the manpower footprint on the isolated atoll.

Part of the reason for keeping the operational manpower footprint as small as possible, during routine operations, was that the manpower footprint on Diego Garcia was not exactly unsubstantial already due to the presence of Regional Joint Headquarters, Far East (RJHQ-FE).

Under the most recent Defence Review, conducted by none other than Sebastian Lawrence as-then Secretary of State for Defence, several years ago, efforts had been made to enhance the joint-operations infrastructure for the British Armed Forces. The Permanent Joint Headquarters (PJHQ) had been established since before the turn of the century, with the Chief of the Joint Staff responsible for overseeing all tai-service activities. The Defence Review had expanded that theory by creating several Regional Joint Headquarters (RJHQs) that would be responsible for all joint operations when the occurred. The majority of the time the military forces of the three service branches were directed by their own top-level command headquarters; the most active and independent of which was the Admiralty, for obvious reasons, but whenever there was a major campaign being fought or an operation being conducted the RJHQ took over and assumed direct control of the forces in question. The individual branch commands would maintain significant input, if for no other reason than the branch commanders made up the Joint Staff in Northwood under the Chief of the Joint Staff, and would help determine strategy, but actual direct operational control fell to the Regional Joint Commander. The sole exception was in the British Isles, where command fell to the Chief of the Joint Staff personally.

The current Regional Joint Commander, Far East, was Air Chief Marshal Sir Andrew Townsend, a former fast-jet pilot with thousands of hours flying, principally, the Panavia Tornado in both the strike fighter and interceptor configurations, earning a Distinguished Flying Cross during a colonial brushfire in the 90s. Townsend was high on the shortlist to serve as the next Chief of the Air Staff, as one of the highest ranking Air Officers in the service, but for the moment was immensely enjoying his posting to Diego Garcia. All things considered the headquarter’s area of responsibility was quiet; the Royal Navy’s Eastern Fleet maintained its tireless patrols of the shipping lanes and lines of communication, the British Army’s V Corps stood their posts diligently and No. 19 Group RAF conducted a constant vigil via it’s fleet of drones across the region. Most of the work done by Air Chief Marshal Townsend and his staff were in the form of long-term and contingency planning, keeping on-top of the latest developments in the region and preparing potential British responses; working in close co-operation with PJHQ for this important, if not very exciting, work.

Of course, given that one of their most frequent topics was a British Invasion of Ceylon, all that work would now pay off, indeed it had been RJHQ-FE’s plan that had been presented by the Chief of the Defence Staff to the Prime Minister, after it had been assessed and approved by PJHQ. As a result Diego Garcia had been well prepared to receive the influx of troops and equipment that had taken place over the last seventy-two hours; the deployment taking place smoothly and efficiently. The forward elements of the 5th South African Armoured Division had also begun to arrive on Diego Garcia, setting the groundwork for the leapfrog from their bases in South Africa up to Ceylon in the coming days, however they were holding back to allow the veritable fleet of sixteen A400M transport aircraft that would be needed for the drop to be assembled at Diego Garcia. The drop on Ceylon was at the edge of their range, but they would be met shortly after the drop by refuelling aircraft out of Singapore and refuelled before their long flight home.

It was the safety of this drop that was the most immediate thing that Air Chief Marshal Townsend had on his mind as he sat in his office in the early hours of the 8th April. As Joint Regional Commander his role was to oversee and co-ordinate the activities of the different service branches, whilst delegating actual direct command and control to the field commanders. Ultimately the decision to commit to the next stage would be his, and if he made a mistake it would be upon his head that the blame was laid. As a result he had spent the early hours reading after-action reports from the Flag Officer, Eastern Task Force, whose aircraft had been tasked with taking out the enemy defences due to the impracticality of getting RAF combat aircraft from Singapore into the fight without a massive air refuelling campaign.

Townsend glanced up at the knock on his door, and smiled slightly as he saw his personal aide, Flight Lieutenant Samantha Hardy, step into the room with a folder in her hand.

“Latest confirmed numbers from Ceylon,” She said as she handed him the document. “Courtesy of Defence intelligence.”

“Ah, fantastic,” Townsend nodded; defence intelligence went through various means to confirm (or refute) the enemy casualty numbers reported by the troops in the field, ranging from after-action reports to satellite imagery. “Let’s take a look.”

Flight Lieutenant Hardy settled into an at-ease position as Townsend flipped through the first few pages of the report taking in the confirmed numbers; at this point he didn’t much care for the refuted numbers or the reason they had been deemed to be inaccurate.

“We’ve confirmed that our fighters took out all twelve of their Hawks, either in the air or by catching them on the ground, which takes away the enemy’s most dynamic air defence capability, I suspected as much but it is much more comforting to have that success confirmed,” Townsend commented. “We’ve also confirmed that we’ve taken out 90% of their air defence network, with unconfirmed reports of the other ten being taken out as well; however we’re going to want to run some SEAD missions ahead of the drop going in, the last thing we need is a transport going down.”

Hardy nodded and scribbled notes onto her notepad; she would take her bosses’ comments to the Chief of Staff who would get in touch with the Flag Officer, Eastern Task Force, to organise and present a plan for such a mission to Townsend before the drop was conducted in some six hours time. A key part of Hardy’s job was being a liaison between Townsend and his Chief of Staff, as well as any other duties that he might require of her; as such it was an interesting and varied job, one that set her up very nicely for the rest of her career.

“Looks like an SBS troop was successfully landed from HMS Upholder last night, they’ve started moving into position to take out key targets on the ground ahead of the invasion, and one patrol is heading to scope out the intended landing site ahead of the Pathfinder Platoon making their landing in a few hours time,” Townsend commented calmly, as if he wasn’t just talking about the first British boots in Ceylon. “Well, I’m sure that Lieutenant General Harper is eager to have his hands untied, so go head and let the good General know that he is clear to deploy the Pathfinders at his discretion; they’re deploying via HAHO jump so they shouldn’t be at risk of any remaining enemy air defence assets.”

Hardy nodded again, scribbling furiously onto her notepad. Lieutenant General Edward Harper was the General Officer Commanding, III Corps; the regional constituent command for all British Army units stationed in or deployed to the Far East area of operations. Lt. General Harper was jointed by Vice Admiral Simon Brooks, commanding the Eastern Fleet, and Air Marshal Patrick Jones, commanding the RAF Third Tactical Air Force, all three of whom answered to Townsend as Joint Regional Commander. Given the prominence of the RAF, and the Royal Navy of course, and the relatively low profile of the British Army in the Far East, command of RJHQ-FE rotated between an RAF Air Chief Marshal and a RN Admiral every two years.

“Alright, let’s get it done.”

Over the next few hours the next stage of the British Invasion of Ceylon began to get underway. Shortly before dawn the Pathfinder Platoon of the 40th Airborne Brigade conducted a High Altitude High Opening (HAHO) jump from an RAF Atlas C.1 some thirty miles south of Ceylon itself, drifting northwards under their canopy avoiding having to expose the drop aircraft to enemy ground fire. The Pathfinder Platoon linked up with an SBS patrol on the ground who had set up an observation post near to the planned drop zone and, together, secured the area and setup the drop zone itself ready for the main drop later in the day. Over the following hours drones from No. 19 Group confirmed that there were no enemy units close to the intended drop zone, ensuring that the drop could be completed in daylight as had been originally intended.

Shortly after 9am a squadron of Sea Typhoon FGR.3, the navalised version of the Typhoon FGR.5, the current production run of the mainstay of the Royal Air Force, were launched from the Indomitable. recently introduced, the most recent update included a thrust-vectoring upgrade to the engines and AESA radar in the form of the CAPTOR-E. This most recent upgrade put the Sea Typhoon on a level playing field with the land based version for the first time, providing the Fleet Air Arm with its backbone for the next few decades. The Sea Typhoons were outfitted for SEAD missions, half outfitted clean for maximum speed and agility, the other loaded to bear with ALARM anti-tradition missiles to take out the enemy air defence radar and SAM sites when they went active. Over the course of the next two hours the remaining enemy air defence were taken out, or their operators convinced by their comrades destruction that it was smarter to abandon any further attempts to contest the British control of the skies.

It was therefore shortly after noon that the sixteen Atlas C.1s carrying the 40th Airborne Brigade departed from Diego Garcia for their long flight to Ceylon, being refuelled by tanker aircraft from Singapore two thirds of the way to their destination. The drop zone was in a wide open area of the Udawalawe National Park, so chosen because it was quite far from pretty much everywhere, ensuring that they could complete the brigade drop, the biggest combat drop in decades, with minimal risk to the troops as the descended, and to the aircraft. Once the 40th Airborne was on the ground their principle task was securing an airfield to bring in additional troops.

In the Operations Room at JRHQ-FE, Air Chief Marshal Townsend watched on the situation display as the squadron of Atlas transports edged closer to Ceylon; the first major landing of British troops in decades was less than an hour away.