SEND HIM VICTORIOUS - A Royal Thriller - Chapter 2, part 2
What if the Golden Age of Kings and Queens made a comeback?
King Alfred II reigns over Great Britain.
Frustrated by the lack of real power of the modern monarchy, the King seizes back the power once wielded by his ancient ancestors.
But the world does not want to let him keep it...
In a history where King Edward VIII never abdicated the throne, the British Royal Family turned out differently.
This is my latest book, which I am serializing for you here on Steemit. You can buy this book on Amazon (clickable here) or any other online bookshop, both electronically and in print, or you can read it free right here.
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I look forward to interacting with you. If you have any questions about the story, locations, characters, events, or background, please ask (though I will only answer them if it doesn’t require revealing spoilers!).
This book is the product of years of preparation, research, and writing. I hope you enjoy it!
Read on:
CHAPTER TWO - Risk (part 2 of 3)
“You know, I need you to have a talk with your brother. Perhaps you can persuade him to come round to our way of thinking.”
“Yes. Of course. Absolutely. I’m already thinking of what I might say to him.”
A knock came at the door. Lindsey opened it.
The Prince of Wales entered, sweat on his face and a soldier at his back. The Prince’s eyes darted to where his father stood gazing at him as if from on high. His sister perched on a chair, back straight, legs crossed, a smirk on her lips.
“What is going on?” The Prince removed a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his soaking brow.
Still holding the door, Lindsey looked at the soldier. “Thank you, Captain.” Captain Phillips left as Lindsey closed the door without a sound.
“Father?” the Prince intreated.
Lindsey withdrew to his corner.
The King locked eyes with his son. “Henceforth, you will wait to be dismissed before leaving my presence. Is that understood?”
The Prince stuffed his handkerchief in his pocket. “Yes, Father.” He looked at his sister and then at the King. “May I be dismissed?”
“Yes, you may.”
Stepping forward again, Lindsey opened the door. The Prince departed backward, only turning when he was through the door. Lindsey closed it.
The Princess stood. “Is there anything else you want me to do, Father?”
“For now,” the King said, “only what I’ve already told you.”
“May I… be dismissed then?”
“Oh, there’s no need for that between us. He needs it. You don’t.”
She rose, half-smiling. “Thank you, Father. Leave Adrian to me,” the Princess said.
Prince Adrian’s Rolls-Royce came to a stop at the front of Clarence House.
The driver exited the car and began to open the passenger door. He jumped back as the Prince of Wales burst out of the car and went into the house, slamming doors behind him.
The Prince’s butler, middle-aged with silvering hair at the sides of his bald top, bespectacled, dressed in a morning suit, met him in the entrance hall. “Good afternoon, Your Highness. We weren’t expecting you today.”
“It’s a day of surprises, Mitchell.” He shrugged his coat off his shoulders and onto the floor.
Mitchell picked up the coat. “It certainly is, Your Highness. May I ask where you’re going?”
“To my office,” the Prince said. “But I’m not to be disturbed.”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
“And no calls!” He opened his office door, entered, and shut it hard. Some flakes of varnish fell on the floor.
The desk, the furnishings, and the décor shared a neoclassical flavour. Behind the desk hung a painting of the same period, a tasteful nude.
He made directly for his desk. From a bottom drawer he took a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, nearly empty. Arranged on the desk was a silver tray with a full glass decanter and several crystal tumblers. Ignoring the decanter, he poured the remainder of the bottle into a glass, and drank. It was gone in one large sip.
A few seconds after he pressed a button on the desk phone and slumped into his leather office chair, a hidden door opened.
“You buzzed, Your Highness?”
The Prince tossed the empty bottle to Mitchell, who caught it. “Get me another bottle or two of Jack.”
“Right away, Your Highness.” The servant moved backward out the door and closed it.
Standing and resting his hands on the desktop, the Prince breathed deeply, staring at the floor.
A convulsion forced all the air out of him. He inhaled but in an instant his lungs involuntarily expelled his breath.
In another moment he was wracked with sobs.
Collapsing into his chair, he gasped for oxygen, tears streaming from his eyes. He wiped them away with a handkerchief, kneaded his eye sockets with the heels of his hands, ran his hands through his hair, and straightened his tie.
Composed, he took the telephone receiver and dialled a number.
“Good evening, Olivia,” he said, his voice steady. “Absolutely right. How did you guess?” A pause. “Good. Be sure and wear that slinky black number. Under the boiler suit, of course.” Another pause. “I’ll see you soon.” The Prince put the phone down.
A decorative chaise-longue sofa stood at the opposite end of the room. The Prince went to it and lay down the wrong way, his feet perched at the top and his head at the bottom. He clasped his hands over his abdomen, and closed his eyes, regulating his breathing.
A Volkswagen Golf parked near the tradesman’s entrance of Clarence House, sporting a magnetic sticker on its door: “24/7 Air Conditioning Specialists”. A woman got out, wearing a blue boiler suit, flat cap, and false moustache. She pressed a button on the security intercom next to a door.
A voice crackled from the speaker. “Can I help you?”
“Air conditioning,” the woman said in a singsong feminine voice.
“Come on in, love,” the crackly voice said.
The door buzzed open, and the disguised woman entered.
The Sikorsky S-76 helicopter painted in the distinctive royal livery drove a blast of icy air onto the deck of the supercarrier HMS King Alfred.
Waiting as the aircraft touched down was the ship’s full complement of officers, together with rows of ratings.
Admiral Frederick Billington, his rank distinguished by epaulettes and the four embroidered rings around his jacket cuffs, and his clean-shaven face by a serious demeanour, greeted the King with a naval salute and a formal smile. “Welcome aboard, Your Majesty.”
The King returned the salute as they walked together toward the forward island, one of two towers rising from the flatness of the flight deck.
“Good morning, Frederick,” King Alfred said. “I trust you’re running a tight ship, as ever.”
“I am, Your Majesty. As I believe you are.”
“It’s a bit early to say,” the King said, “but the gears are in motion.”
They entered the tower, followed by the guard detachment.
The tour took in the crew quarters, kitchens, mess halls, hangar bays, maintenance areas, and engine rooms, finishing on the bridge. Captain Frank Rycroft waited for them, a bearded sailor with a square-jaw who wore his fifty-plus years well.
“Good morning, Your Majesty. How do you find my ship?” Rycroft beamed confidence while shaking hands with his sovereign.
“Your ship?” the King said, eyes widened and brows raised. “This is His Majesty’s ship, Frank. That is what ‘HMS’ stands for.”
The Captain laughed politely, and the King smiled. The Admiral looked on as if nothing had been said.
“It is a fine ship, to be sure,” Alfred said, looking at the Admiral Billington. “But a mere two aircraft carriers does not a navy make, Frederick.”
The Admiral laughed. “You’re using my line, Your Majesty. The refits are going very well. Some of the hulks we obtained from the Americans ten years ago are fully refurbished and ready to be brought into service. They only await your command. The rest are not far off.”
“You know how to curry favour with your sovereign,” the King said. “I’m sure you have naval matters well in hand, Frederick. Perhaps my son could be given a commission on one of the new ships. After all, he is a captain in my Navy.”
“I know. I was there when he was commissioned. I was, however, under the impression that his rank was purely honorary. In any case, all our ships have commanding officers currently serving.”
“He has undergone all the standard naval training,” Alfred said, holding Billington’s eye. “All he lacks is a ship.”
“His training was quite a number of years ago,” the Admiral said. “It’ll be somewhat out of date now. He’s seen no duty of any kind since then.”
“I want him on active duty, Admiral,” the King said, inclining his head and looking down his nose at the Navy’s most senior officer. “As captain of his own ship.”
Perfectly!