Send Him Victorious: Book 1 by Bart Cline
Alfred stood up and began moving around the room. “My police force, firing on my army. That isn’t what we planned for!”
“Your Majesty,” Montgomery said, standing up as well, “I’ve served in enough war situations to know they are anything but predictable.”
“Stewart, we are not at war!”
“I am afraid, Your Majesty, that the police in York, and possibly elsewhere, don’t agree with that sentiment.” Montgomery watched the King stop and brace his palms on his desk as he breathed audibly. “I’m sorry sir.”
“This was never meant to become a war,” Alfred said, shutting his eyes tightly. “The New Order was meant to bring in a golden age. I wanted to encourage peace and prosperity, not death and betrayal. What hope is there when my own police turn against me?”
“Your Majesty, we expected this. We discussed it. We knew there would be those who wouldn’t capitulate to your rule.”
“We did not know it would be the police!”
“Well perhaps we should have,” the General said. “Their union, AS-ONE: we’ve always had trouble with them. The army’s had dealings with them once before, when they were on the verge of going on strike, and things got out of hand.”
“They’re certainly striking now,” the King said, still looking at the floor. “Literally.”
“We’re going to have to fight them – no two ways about it. Total commitment. But I’m afraid, we’re going to be painted as ‘cop-killers’. That’s how AS-ONE will spin it.”
“However one spins it, the members seem to have cast their votes. The police are against us.”
“Not all the police are members of AS-ONE. Many are still on our side.” Now it was the General’s turn to pace. “Moreover, I believe there is someone else out there, working against us behind the scenes. Someone who has clout and contacts. Somehow the police had military weaponry.”
“You are not painting a very reassuring picture, old friend. If there is someone ‘pulling the strings’, you and your men must find him and neutralise him. Sir Patrick Blackwell-MacIntyre would be my first suspect.”
“Oh, perhaps, but if we eliminate him, won’t another simply rise up in his place? Your Majesty, the situation is not hopeless. If we must fight a civil war, then fight it we will. Your plan is still the right one.”
“No,” the King snapped. “It was only the right one when it was a dream, a plan, a theory, a work of art. Now… it may be better to…”
“What? Capitulate? Admit defeat before the battle has even begun in earnest? Is that what you are driving at?”
“I…” The King shook his head. “I don’t know what’s best. I don’t want to kill any more of my people.”
“They,” the General said testily, pointing in the direction he imagined York to be, “killed our men. You didn’t. I ordered our men not to engage them except as a last resort. Am I responsible for those deaths by having failed to order a decisive first strike? Also against our own people, must I add?”
The King brought his fists down hard on the desk, and shouted at Montgomery. “I set this in motion, Stewart! I am responsible! And on my own head be it. But it is not too late to minimise the harm, undo some of the damage, heal some of the wounds.”
“There is nowhere either of us can go from here, except to the Tower – or more specifically, Stangmoor Prison, where today’s traitors are left to rot. It’s not a pleasant place, Your Majesty. I’m a soldier; I could handle it. However, with respect, it would destroy you. There is no going back.” He gathered one hand up into a fist. “And if you try–”
“Are you threatening me, Stewart?” Alfred trembled. “I am the King! At least for now.”
“Don’t forget who put you there,” the General said through clenched teeth, “Your Majesty. Now, will you promise to keep your part of our arrangement?”
Alfred turned away, clasping his hands behind his back and looking to the floor. “I can promise nothing.”
The silence hung in the air like a storm cloud. Montgomery breathed, filling his lungs, and held it, refusing to let the air escape until the workings of his mind, visible on his face, gave him some answer. “So be it,” he said, exhaling to the limit of his lung capacity.
The General went to the door. Lindsey got up and attempted to open it for him, but Montgomery pushed him out of the way and let himself out, leaving the door ajar as he stormed away.
Lindsey closed the door gently.
Alfred turned to face into the room, walking its perimeter. He kept his hands behind his back, eyes cast down, and shuffled along in slow motion.
“Your Majesty,” Lindsey said, closing his notebook and pocketing his pen, “I’m sure he didn’t mean it. I know how much the General loves and respects you.”
“Hmm.” The King continued his lackadaisical meandering. “Blair, I want you to strike that last conversation from the record.”
Lindsey started to speak, clearing his throat. “Sir, I know it seems… awkward… now, but it should be on record for future generations. History will want to know these proceedings. And I don’t imagine it’ll count against your reputation to those who come after us that you regretted the loss of British lives. Only an extremist would fault you for that.”
“Hmm.” Alfred stopped his pacing, but his eyes remained downcast and his hands hidden behind him. “What do you think I should do?”
“Really Your Majesty, it’s not my place to advise you.”
“Will you refuse a boon to your King twice in the same minute? Speak your mind, Blair.”
“Very well sir. I believe ‘The king’s heart is in the hand of the LORD’, and ‘He turneth it whithersoever he will’. You’re doing his will, whether you realise it or not. But unlike many of the Biblical kings, your motives have been good. You saw the faults in our system and tried to use your power to fix them. You couldn’t have foreseen every possibility. But do I think you should stop, even if the nation would let you go back to exactly how it was before? No. I believe that God hasn’t brought this about for nothing, and that good will come of it.”
“So your advice is that I preside over the Second English Civil War? That sounds strange counsel from a modern-day Christian.”
“Not at all, Your Majesty. The factions that have begun fighting now have always been there. If this hadn’t been the excuse they needed, something else would have been. Better to bring the enemy to the surface in your time than theirs.”
The King put an appreciative hand on Lindsey’s shoulder as he turned and headed for the door. “For posterity’s sake, you had better record this conversation in your notebook as well.”
Noticing that the King was waiting, facing the door, Lindsey opened it for his employer and sovereign.
***
“In the absence of orders,” the Major said, “your men will have to show initiative.”
Colonel Broadley looked sidelong at Major Weldon. “That’ll work for those few who actually possess initiative, but I think we’re going to have to do most of that ourselves.”
Weldon raised an eyebrow. “What are you thinking?”
“Well, our biggest problems until now are the communications blackout and the mortars. I say we fight fire with fire. They have communications, so somewhere on the spectrum there’s one wavelength that’s not jammed. Fuller,” Broadley said, looking at one of the men standing nearby, “find that wavelength and fill it with chatter.”
“Sir!” Fuller went away to obey.
“And Juwehlen, you get mortars as near to the baddies as you dare, and fire on them until they’re bloody puddings with a rubble topping.”
“Sir!” Juwehlen moved with purpose.
“Harve,” the Major said, “have you forgotten the General’s instructions not to destroy any historic buildings?”
“Well sir,” Broadley said, rubbing the back of his neck, “these positions aren’t all that historic.”
Weldon smiled. “Carry on Colonel. Just avoid shooting at the Minster.”
Fuller, now manning the communications centre on board an APC, trawled every frequency, mini-frequency, and micro-frequency he could, but – there being thousands of combinations to try on numerous radio bands – found the problem challenging and time-consuming.
While the couriers were on their way, Colonel Bradley arranged for a simple message to be transmitted via flashing lights from his position on the outermost rooftop in the active operational area, informing his scattered squads that more detailed orders were on the way. Built into this message was a prearranged scramble in the standard Morse alphabet which ensured that the police – assuming that anyone among them even knew Morse code – would not be able to intercept and understand the orders.
The mortar teams had spread themselves around – some on rooftop stations with their comrades, others on the ground in discrete groups – and, upon receipt of detailed orders, they commenced their shelling.
Each team began by firing several dummy rounds to determine the shells’ trajectories given wind and barometric conditions.
The distinctive “thrum” as a mortar shell was launched and cleared the tube, together with the flash of the explosive charge that hurled them into the air, meant it would not be long before the police snipers began to acquire targets.
Police losses were incurred in the reign of fire the Army unleashed on their positions, but with an advantage in the form of altitude, relative invisibility, and small size, the police were able to begin to pick off the mortar teams while themselves being relatively hard targets.
While the Army’s superior firepower tore several of the buildings to rubble – destroying the police marksmen who were ensconced there – the generally better emplacements, higher ground, and superior marksmanship of the police units meant that, while they were not about to be able to claim any territory back from the Army, they would not be losing much either. Some of the army losses came in the form of deaths, and some as injuries, but the result was far fewer people able to man the mortars.
Soon Colonel Broadley was sending in replacement mortar teams made up of personnel who had experienced approximately five minutes of training.
“Armitage! Get yourself a team together and take out the three nearest enemy positions, up close and personal, and without being seen or heard. Our mortars aren’t doing the job, so the personal touch is going to be required.”
“Yes sir,” Armitage said, already coloured in commando war-paint. “I wondered when I’d get that order.”
“Well, it’s now. Go get it done.”
Armitage left, and Broadley turned to speak to Major Weldon. “It’s unfortunate that we can’t rely on any reinforcements. Or air-power, for that matter. We’re getting depleted.”
“Yes,” Weldon said. “It’s at times like these one wishes our troops weren’t deployed on other continents.”
“Times like this, eh? How many times like this have you known?”
The Major laughed under his breath. “Only one, and that only from history books. Anyway, reinforcements will come, eventually. If our messages get through. Or if we can somehow disable that jamming field generator.”
“That’d be easy if we just blew up the Minster.”
“That wouldn’t be the end of it. Taking a city centre is always problematic. Remember Baghdad? Kabul? They were no more than a rabble of ruffians as well. But they had heavy weapons, and already owned the city. It took time.”
“Of course, and there we had air power. Here we’ve got to mind the bloody cathedral.”
“Mind how you speak about it, Harve. It is a sacred place after all. Consecrated ground and all that.”
“Sorry sir. To my mind, right now it’s just a pile of stones, in the way of a tactical objective.”
The repeated crump of shelling came to their ears again, and they returned to their binoculars to attempt to determine which side was winning this volley.
Police units pressed their city-centre advantage by hitting from higher ground, where they could pick their targets without more than the tops of their heads being visible to their quarry. Their marksmen, trained in the art of picking off moving targets through the smallest windows of opportunity, were every bit as proficient as their army counterparts, but less exposed. They continued to incur casualties on the rooftops and on the ground.
“We’re losing too many men, Harve.”
Broadley lowered his binoculars and looked at the Major. “How many is too many?”
“Hmm.” Weldon continued watching the situation unfold. “Let’s stop trying to advance. If we go quiet and don’t show any further belligerence they may do the same. Just hold our positions for now – with the exception of your clandestine team since we can’t get a message to them anyway. Who knows? Maybe they’ll come up trumps.”
“I agree sir,” Broadley said. “I’ll call the retreat.”
“The halt,” the Major corrected him. “We’re not going anywhere.”
6 - Strife
Major Weldon initially called the two-man covert infiltration team a strike-team.
The two men – a white soldier named Liam, and a black soldier named Staveley – had protested against that designation because by now the police were considered to be “on strike”.
Dressed in dark city camouflage, their faces were painted to match. On their heads were olive drab knit skullcaps to avoid the noise associated with helmets. Every part of their outfits were made of soft noiseless material. Even their weapons were held by plastic hooks and buffered by rubber covers to eliminate any rattle.
Previously, throughout the day, army marksmen had been shooting out street lamps here and there, at great distances. Now, in the darkness of night, their accuracy paid dividends as the team negotiated the streets more stealthily by using the pools of darkness these black-spots afforded. The greatest risk was in dashing between them through the otherwise brightly lit streets of York. But their camouflage caught the sodium street lighting in an advantageous way, and they remained unnoticed.
York Minster was in the shape of a cross, as so many cathedrals are, formed by the main body of the building being crossed by the north and south transepts. Added on to the Minster like an afterthought was the Chapter House, a tall round extension joined to the north transept by an angled corridor.
At the west end of the Minster was the main set of doors by which parishioners and tourists would normally enter, but now open to the comings and goings of uniformed police and their collaborators. Along the full length of the great church’s north side was Dean’s Park, a green area used in the summer by picnickers, dog-walkers, and sleepy homeless people. It was a simple expanse of grass covering a substantial distance from the base of the cathedral to several historic buildings, with precious little cover between them.
There were two doors visible from the park, which the team needed to investigate and which were plainly exposed due to the the lack of any obscuring features. Fitted into a small gap nestled into the corner formed by the intersection of the nave and the north transept was one small door by which entry to the Minster could be gained only to those with proper authorisation. Another was located on the corner of the corridor between the north transept and the chapter house.
For half an hour Liam and Staveley hid behind a tall hedge at the northernmost part of the park through which they observed those on patrol, taking careful note of their movements. They, also a two-man team, circled the building constantly. It would take four minutes to walk the full perimeter of the Minster, but they habitually took seven. There was no other foot traffic in the park for the time they watched.
They would have preferred
Back-to-back, Liam worked at the door while Staveley kept watch.
At a breathless pace, Liam forced a snake-cam under the door and looked at its display. “No good. Two men in there.”
“We could take two men easy,” Staveley said.
“Our orders were to go in quiet, and that’s what we’ll do. Anyway, look at your map. This entry point’d be wide open. Anyone else in the nave would be able to see us.” Liam collected up his equipment and they darted back to their cover. A moment later the patrol reappeared, and soon moved on and out of sight.
They repeated the operation at the next door, finding it less exposed inside but nevertheless manned.
At the east end of the cathedral a fence protected a yard enclosed by a U-shape of the building’s structure. This yard contained several other entrances to the Minster, but it also contained a number of vehicles and cigarette-smoking people. The team dismissed this area and moved on.
They came to the south side of the cathedral, where a highly secure mesh fence enclosed the Masons’ Lodge, a large shelter under which stonemasons worked in the day and left their tools at night. To the left of this area, just outside the fence, was an unassuming doorway into the church, a double door with a lock in the centre. There were no more doors, so this would be their last possibility to enter without compromising their stealth.
The only problem with this spot was that it was openly visible to a large and popular area, the Minster Yard. It was an open space paved with flagstones, over which an ancient Roman column stood sentinel. The large portal into and out of the south transept opened onto this yard, which experienced frequent foot traffic – but between the paving stones and the small door was an eight-metre expanse of lawn, which was not lit as well as the paved area.
Awaiting their moment, not only for the patrol’s timed circular march, but for a break in the sparse foot traffic across the yard, Liam and Stavely took the opportunity and rushed the door. Liam slid the snake under it while Staveley guarded his back. The tiny monitor glowed dimly, being set to its lowest brightness level.