Send Him Victorious: Book 1 by Bart Cline
The yard was little more than a car park at the back of some shops. There were stairs at the far corner, leading up two flights to an external door on the second floor. They crossed the yard in only a few long strides, and ascended the stairs three at a time.
They reached the door, which was locked, and climbed over the top of it to the roof. Some windows, now broken, allowed entry to the building, and they found themselves in an office.
Hearing a multitude of footsteps on the metal stairs outside, they tried the internal door. They found themselves in a corridor, off of which were more plain white doors, an employee break room, male and female washrooms, and stairs leading down to another closed door. Liam and Staveley bounded down, smashing open the door at the bottom, while voices and sounds of breaking glass came from upstairs.
They emerged into a shop, knocking down racks of discounted designer clothing as they raced through, looking for the exit. A staircase in the middle of the shop floor led them down to the ground floor.
At the bottom they kept running, firing their weapons into the panes of the glass-front, toppling half a dozen trendily-dressed mannequins as they broke through to the popular shopping street, Davygate, which even at this late hour bore a modicum of foot traffic.
The startled passers-by, Liam and Staveley noticed, were mostly uniformed and armed policemen. Having backed off from the spray of bullets and glass, they were regaining their composure and raising their weapons at the fleeing soldiers who did not stop or pause as they sprinted southeast.
Having attracted fresh pursuers, they swept down Davygate, breathless and fatigued beyond the limits of their training, no longer zigzagging but merely keeping their speed up as they panted like greyhounds.
Turning right, they got out of the line of fire again, but shortly found themselves running through a crowd of police officers and their friends enjoying a late-night drink at an outdoor seating area – a number of whom reacted quickly enough to make an attempt at tackling the two soldiers, whose momentum carried them through unhindered. Nevertheless, a significant number of additional pursuers joined the chase.
In a moment they turned left down another street, quiet, but not deserted, and the instant the pursuers rounded the corner they resumed firing at the soldiers.
Looking for another opportunity to turn, they saw the street was solid with shops and closed doors. Liam noticed a tiny alleyway some distance off. “I can’t,” he panted, “keep this up.”
“You wanna die from exhaustion,” he said, between ragged breaths, “or bullets? Here!”
They made a sharp turn down the alley, skidding slightly on the soles of their boots. A small amount of blood flicked onto a wall as a bullet grazed Staveley’s leg just as he gained the relative safety of the alley. He continued his sprint, either failing to notice or refusing to acknowledge the pain.
The alley opened up into a small yard in which was a beer garden with yet more police. They went into a crouching run as they punched through the crowd like bullets.
As the alley narrowed again and abruptly stopped at the riverbank, heavy railings prevented them from continuing forward into the water.
To the right was a security fence closing off the shell of a building undergoing reconstruction.
Their muscles screaming threats with every move, they forced themselves left, up a dozen concrete stairs, and onto the paved path several metres above the level of the River Ouse.
Ahead of them a short distance was a bridge, at the nearer end of which was a roadblock formed of armoured police vehicles, cars, and heavily armed men facing the opposite bank.
Leaving a trail of blood spots, Liam and Staveley sprinted on toward the bridge, as yet unnoticed by any except the pursuing crowd pouring onto the riverside pavement via the narrow alley and stairs.
Then the men on the roadblock noticed them. The two men ran on with no visible means of escape, posse behind and roadblock in front.
Faces dripping and clothes soaked with sweat, the fleeing soldiers stumbled at speed toward certain demise or capture. But the men on the roadblock were slow on their duty, and did not raise their weapons.
Making a sharp right through a gap in the defensive barricade, Liam and Staveley emerged onto the deserted bridge.
Liam noticed dark uniforms, helmeted men, on the opposite riverside, pointing weapons in their direction, taking careful aim. Still more men on the rooftops, bringing rifles to bear.
The two exhausted men stopped, three quarters of the way across the bridge.
“That’s it,” Liam said. “End of the line.”
“You idiot,” Staveley said, and collapsed to the ground.
Liam looked all around. Behind him, to the east, around the roadblock, all the police congregated, watching their quarry with guns at the ready, though none had gone beyond the battle line. In front, to the west, with guns pointed this way, the charcoal uniforms of his comrades-in-arms, defending his approach.
Liam’s legs gave way below him and he collapsed into a sitting position on the asphalt. “Yep. I’m an idiot.” He lowered himself to lie on the ground and closed his eyes as his friends came over to him and carried him to the relative safety of their bank of the river.
***
Lieutenant McGougan entered General Montgomery’s office and, after appropriate pleasantries, made his report, explaining in detail all that had gone on up to the disabling of the jamming system.
“And what about the two young men who brought this thing off?” The General leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk and clasping his hands in front of him.
“Unknown as at the time of this report,” McGougan said. “Their exit strategy was not exactly watertight, and the explosion on top of the Minster did rather announce their presence, so we can’t assume that they emerged unscathed.”
“No. They should both be decorated.” The General looked down at his desk top. “Posthumously, if necessary. Right, now that telecommunications are restored, the assault on York must begin in earnest. What’s the state of the reinforcements you’re organising?”
“Coming along well. Aldershot’s mobilising the Dragoons, and the 15th are just back from manoeuvres. And the RAF are giving us a flight of gunships. We should be able to nip this thing in the bud pretty soon.”
“Sounds good to me,” the General said. “Ten thousand of ours against – how many did you say they’ve got?”
“We estimate between fifteen hundred and two thousand, but that’s only the police. We’ve no idea how many of the local citizenry have joined them, but Yorkshire certainly has a full-scale rebel militia now. Perhaps we should set up our base of operations in Lancaster,” the Lieutenant said with a smile.
The General acknowledged with a barely audible laugh. “No thanks. I’ll not be responsible for starting the wars of the roses all over again.”
“But about enemy numbers, they’re not all in York. Let’s remember there are a hundred thousand police officers in England.”
“Mmm,” the General said. “And how many of those are AS-ONE?”
“About half. So we really do have to nip this thing, and fast.”
The phone rang, and the General answered it. “Montgomery here. He’s here, yes. I’ll put him on.” He handed the phone to the Lieutenant.
“Lieutenant McGougan here. Fantastic. He’ll be very glad to hear it. Oh… well, that’s not too surprising I suppose. Very good. Carry on Major.” He put the telephone receiver back in its cradle.
“Let me guess.” The General leaned forward again. “Those two lads have been recovered safe and sound?”
“Nearly. One of them has a minor injury, but he’ll be all right. But there’s more. They can’t give us exact or even approximate numbers, but it seems that the police have billeted most of their men in the Minster.”
“And is that meant to be good news or bad news? Nevermind; I suppose it can only be good news. It means they’re all in one place, so we should be able to smoke them out.?
“Perhaps literally,” McGoughan said. “It may be that we could fill the place with gas.”
“Yes, maybe. But if that’s not feasible,” the General said, taking a relaxed position as he leaned back in his padded leather desk chair, “then I give my personal authorisation to use artillery and demolitions. No need to bring the whole thing down, but blow a hole in it, by all means.”
“Yes sir, but… won’t His Majesty be rather upset?”
The General smiled a half-smile and fixed his eyes in the distance. “He’ll be livid.”
***
Monday was ostensibly the Archbishop’s day off, and with the busyness of his schedule through the week culminating with four Sunday services, one might say he deserved it. But when the King arrived at Lambeth Palace that Monday morning, the Archbishop was doing anything but relaxing.
As the King’s Rolls-Royce Phantom rolled up to the front entrance, the comings and goings of dignitaries bordered on frantic. Alfred recognised and greeted the Lebanese ambassador, who was leaving just as Alfred was entering. The ambassador was followed by his diplomatic entourage, while the King was followed by security guards, a manservant, and Blair Lindsey. Escorted into Youngblood’s office, Alfred took his seat opposite the Archbishop. Youngblood took his seat behind his desk.
“Good morning Your Majesty. It’s lovely to see you. I had only just been wondering why you don’t come to Lambeth more often.”
The King crossed his legs, sitting with impeccable posture, his bright and shiny silk tie setting off his charcoal suit. “Oh, rather busy, you understand. I can’t visit with anyone as often as I’d like. Except for Blair here. And how are Janice and the boys?” The King’s wide eyes expressed genuine interest.
“They’re all exceedingly well. Janice is here – she’s in the garden I believe. You must take a moment to see her before you leave today. Edward is at St Andrews, reading philosophy, and Finlay is a curate at Gravesend.”
The King smiled. “So one is doing the Lord’s work, and the other the Devil’s.”
Youngblood returned the smile. “That’s one way of looking at it.”
“Now what did you really want to talk to me about, Woollie?” The King sat with his hands folded in his lap, and his eyes opened wide. “After all, I am here at your invitation.”
“I have certain concerns – and when I say ‘I’, I mean in my capacity as representative of the Christian church in England.”
“What a broad way of referring to yourself. Would you say he represents you, Blair?”
Blair took a second as he finished scribbling his notes, looking at the King. “Not really sir,” Lindsey said, a flush faintly visible on his face as his eyes fell on the Archbishop. “But then, I am a Baptist.”
The King gestured toward Lindsey, palm upward. “There you are.”
Youngblood shifted in his seat. “Be that as it may–”
“In any case,” the King said, “am I not, in fact, the head of the Church of England? Does that not make me a better representative of the English Church than yourself?”
“Of course, but do you have time to execute such an office? Is that not why you have archbishops? In any case, I have, over time, cultivated ecumenical relationships with other churches, and other faiths. The Methodists, the United Reformed, the Presbyterians all more or less toe our line, as do the Episcopalians in America. And due to a century of patient diplomacy, the Archbishop of Canterbury,” Youngblood placed his right hand on his breastbone, “is not without influence in the English Catholic Church. And to add to that, our alliances with Islam in Britain make us, shall we say, a tough act to follow.”
“And – you’ll pardon me for being a trifle slow – what exactly is your point, Woollie?”
“My point, Your Majesty, is that when I rock the boat, it is with a view toward gaining alliances. But you have rocked the ship of state, and it’s in danger of capsizing. Now that you’ve begun the second English Civil War, what was previously a peaceful nation is presently anything but.”
“You asked me here today merely to air a grievance?”
“There is nothing ‘mere’ about this Your Majesty. While you and your generals spend your time deciding the fate of men’s lives, I am spending mine in attempting to preserve the ecumenical unity it has taken the British churches a century to achieve. Thankfully, I have the ear of the British cardinals and the British imams. They need reassurances – precisely because you are the head of the Church of England. What’s to become of our relationships with them if the monarchy returns to the old ways?”
“Really Woollie, have I given the Catholics, the Muslims, the Jews any cause to fear?”
“Of course not Your Majesty. And, as I say, I have their collective ear. But” – Youngblood clasped his hands on his desk – “some threats are implicit.” His and the King’s eyes met. “This civil war certainly does not help matters. Political division will go hand-in-hand with ecclesiastical division.”
“Oh Wollie, why must you keep saying ‘civil war’?”
“What would you call the incidents in York, then?”
“It is a civil disturbance, at worst.”
“Very well,” the Archbishop said. “However we refer to it, there has been fighting in and around York Minster. You cannot authorise fighting in a holy place.”
“I’ve instructed General Montgomery to preserve historic monuments, especially holy ones.”
“Yes Your Majesty, but that might not be enough.” The Archbishop raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t seen the news in the last hour, have you?”
The King narrowed his eyes at Youngblood. “I’ve been busy.”
“With your permission…” The Archbishop pointed at the television on the wall, which was positioned between two paintings.
Brandishing a remote control, Youngblood selected the BBC’s 24-hour news channel. Immediately they were greeted with images of a helicopter firing missiles into the side of York Minster. The imagery continued with the gunship being shot down by a guided missile from somewhere on the ground. Cutting to a later scene, a field correspondent stood on a rooftop giving his report, while in the background both the gaping hole in the cathedral as well as the smoking hulk of the downed helicopter could be seen. The banner at the bottom of the screen read, “Devastation in York – hundreds dead or injured.”
“Turn it off,” Alfred said.
“Would you not agree, Your Majesty,” Youngblood said, pressing the power button on the remote, “that this is civil war?”
King Alfred slumped in his chair, exhaling. He opened his mouth, took a breath, and closed it again.
“Consider my grievance aired.” The Archbishop stood up.
“And it’s quite enough,” the King said with a sigh. “I’ll leave you to… whatever it is that you do. I’ll go see Janice in the garden. No Blair, you stay here. A visit with my favourite niece need hardly be minuted. Can you entertain Blair for a few minutes, Woollie?”
Without waiting for an answer the King left the room. Youngblood and Lindsey were left standing.
“So, you’re the nonconformist in the King’s orbit,” Youngblood said. “A baptist.”
“As I pointed out earlier.”
“And straightforward too. How can you possibly operate in these circles?”
“Pretty well. His Majesty is a good employer. Anyway, I am where God has put me.”
“Ah, a Calvinist as well.”
Lindsey smiled. “You’re a perceptive man. I suppose that’s why you’re Archbishop.”
“Among other reasons,” the Archbishop said, “mostly to do with politics. Unlike you, I don’t believe that God ordains all things. I believe that we must make our own opportunities, and if we work hard enough God blesses them.”
“Well, it was God’s will that I found myself working for King Alfred, but that would never have been realised if I hadn’t put myself forward for the job. And yet, that was his will too.”
“And what of your othe
“It’s a myth. A fairy story invented to explain God away.”
“So you’re a fundamentalist, to boot,” Youngblood sneered.
“If that means sticking to the fundamentals of the faith, yes. If you think I might be one step away from blowing up your cathedrals, violence isn’t the Christian way, as of course you know. Just to save you some time,” Lindsey said with unfaltering pleasantness, “I believe the Bible is God’s Word, there are only two sacraments, whoever is not for the Lord is against him, Sunday is the Christian sabbath, the Biblical model is that churches should be independent, and Christians must behave in a way that’s above reproach so as not to bring dishonour on our Lord. There are probably quite a few things I’ve left out, but you begin to get the idea.”
“As Reformed as they come, eh? So you tell me all those things straight up to prove you have nothing to hide? I must remember that strategy.”
“But I don’t have anything to hide.”
“You can’t get where I am without getting a bit jaded about such things.”
“And therein lies the problem. It’s better to be a little Christian in a little church. God can still do great things with us, but the credit goes to him instead of to a religious machine.” Lindsey took a short breath and held it a moment before speaking again. “You do… believe in God, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” Youngblood snapped. “However – and this may be a bit progressive for your classic fundamentalism to grasp – God is not so much a ‘he’ as an ‘it’.”
“Then why does the Bible always refer to God in the masculine?”
“If you were talking about God two-thousand years ago you would also have had to make certain accommodations to your patriarchal society. But mankind has grown up a bit since then.”
Lindsey smiled. “What, because we’ve all got mobile phones now?”
“Antiquated notions about God and the Bible,” Youngblood said, “must not be allowed to get in the way of progress. The Church needs to grow up too.”
“Well, Christ seemed to say the opposite: ‘Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child shall in no wise enter therein.’”
“Then perhaps, as children, the laity need the guiding hand of the Church.”