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
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…”