Send Him Victorious: Book 1 by Bart Cline
“Now let me think. I had some of that yesterday as well. And now do stop prodding me.” The King crossed the room to resume examining his map.
McGougan turned to Lindsey. “Aren’t you supposed to look after him?”
Lindsey smiled politely. “I’m his personal assistant, not his nurse. I can accompany him to the dining room, but I can’t make him partake.”
At that moment, Roger burst into the room, waving a sheet of paper over his head. “We’ve got him!”
The King stood to attention, eyes wide, while turning his head slightly to look at Roger off-centre. “‘We’ve got him’? Explain ‘we’.”
‘The pulse we sent out at seven-point-seven gigahertz, on the three-point-six metre wavelength. It came back in point-zero-zero-two-three seconds, at exactly seventeen percent of its transmitted strength. Sent at an angle of thirty-six-point-three degrees relative to North–”
“Right, now ‘north’ I do understand. Are you trying to say you’ve located something?” The King wore a scowl of confusion.
“Our analysis puts it at this address.” He held out a scribbled sticky note.
“It?”
“The source of the signal, Your Majesty. The General. Or rather, his kidnappers.”
“You mean to say you’ve located General Montgomery by means of all this technical gobbledygook?”
“Oh, I assure you Your Majesty, it’s not gobbledygook. You see, when they made their transmission to us to give their demands, the radio signal that they used had various characteristics. It’s an example of a technical process called ‘going out on a limb’, but we took all the characteristics of the transmission we could record, and sort of reverse-engineered it. What wavelength was it? What was the original signal strength? Taking all the known or likely properties of the transmission, we asked ourselves what would be the physical characteristics of the transmission device and aerial that sent it. So we set a dish transmitter on a very high mast and began pinging. Taking a guess at the likely distances, we thought increments of ten to the second would be about right–”
The King held out his hand to stop Roger, closing his eyes in concentration. “You mean to say you’ve been ‘pinging’ – I think I understand what that means – the entire British landscape ten times per second? That’s incredible.”
“No sir, I mean navigational seconds. Degrees, minutes, seconds.”
“Ah, of course. In any case, if you start at zero and have only swept thirty-something degrees, why has it taken this long?”
“It hasn’t taken long. Bear in mind, that’s thirty-three times sixty times sixty pings we had to send and analyse for each level of inclination – because Britain’s not flat you know – which had to be even finer than–”
“Very well Roger, I’m suddenly getting a headache. You’ve done very well. Give your information to Lieutenant McGougan. Then go home and get some sleep.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Roger stood still, but for a slight tic which betrayed his uncertainty. He bowed, inclining himself about forty-five degrees from the waist, hands at his sides, more Japanese-style than royal-style.
The King smiled as Roger departed.
The Lieutenant positioned himself in front of the King and stood to attention. “With your permission Your Majesty, I’ll organise a raid to be carried out forthwith. If the General’s there, we’ll retrieve him.”
“What do you mean when you say ‘we’?”
“Well, me and my men. I know I could entrust the Colonel with it, but to be honest I don’t want to miss this one.”
King Alfred put his arm across the McGougan’s shoulders. “Well, about that…”
***
The twenty or so army vehicles forming a loose convoy – running with rubber tyres rather than caterpillar treads to reduce noise, and with lights off to reduce visibility – nevertheless drew attention due to the noise and smoke from their un-muffled diesel engines. The armoured vehicles were fired upon several times as they entered the city of Norwich, by scattered bands of militia. Though the city was not occupied by opponents of the New Order, in common with every other city it was infiltrated by them.
For the most part, the vehicles shrugged off the small arms fire and continued on their way, never pausing to engage the pockets of resistance.
King Alfred, Lieutenant McGougan, and several other soldiers, all wearing combat fatigues – and all except the King wearing camouflage face paint – occupied their bench seating in the belly of an armoured personnel carrier at the middle of the convoy. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” the driver said, shouting back over his shoulder in an effort to overcome the noise of the machine, “that it’s not more comfortable for you.”
“Don’t worry about me Corporal,” King Alfred said, not shouting but nevertheless making his voice carry. “I didn’t get where I am today by perching the royal backside on a velvet cushion.”
The nine soldiers occupying the vehicle all laughed politely.
“Nevertheless, Your Majesty,” McGougan said, “it is a dangerous mission. I should really have insisted that you remain at the Palace.”
“As I recall, you did insist. Nevertheless, here I am. As I tell you again and again, I must be the first person to greet the General on his rescue.” Alfred looked around to include all the men in the vehicle. “Not to worry, you lads can do all the fighting. I’m too old and tired to participate. I’m not any kind of action hero.” Again the men chuckled, as some more small arms fire peppered the sides of the vehicle.
At length the vehicle came to rest and the engines shut off.
“We’re here sir,” the Corporal said. “Norwich city hall. And it ain’t a pretty sight. A huge grey concrete box with windows. Looks like something built by the Nazis. Just the kind of place to keep prisoners.”
“You don’t have to like it Corporal,” the Lieutenant said. “But let’s try not to blow it up. It is a historic building.”
The King smiled and winked at the Lieutenant. “You have my permission to blow this one up if it helps. Now, off you go.”
“You heard His Majesty. Off we go, then. Except for you Corporal. Stay behind the wheel. Get His Majesty out of here if anything goes wrong.”
“Yes sir,” the Corporal said.
“Is that acceptable Your Majesty?”
“Perfectly, Ryan.”
“Good. See you soon.” McGougan closed the door, shutting the King in the armoured vehicle. He stepped away, gathering his troops from the numerous vehicles, and leading them into the City Hall without a sound.
After breaching the door, the soldiers were met by a member of the night time janitorial staff, mopping the reception area. When questioned he appeared ignorant of the presence of anyone other than the cleaners, assuming the entire building to be empty.
“Is there a cellar?”
“Sure. It’s where we store the cleaning stuff. Ain’t very big though, and I didn’t see no people down there, ’specially no prisoner.”
“Let’s see it anyway.”
The janitor escorted the soldiers to a door, unlocked it, and took them down a flight of stairs.
The room was indeed small and quickly searched in an efficient military manner.
“Do you see what I see,” McGougan said to his right-hand-man, “a storage room with no other exit than where we entered?”
“On the surface, yes sir. But… this shelving unit. See? Its legs don’t touch the floor, and it’s fixed to the wall.”
They put their weight behind it and pushed the unit until it sunk behind the wall.
“Well I’ll be,” the janitor exclaimed as he peered into the room opening up beyond.
“Clear it,” McGougan said.
Several of the men pulled night-vision or infrared goggles down over their eyes, readied their rifles, and took cautious steps through the secret door into the blackness.
“Clear!”
“Proceed, then.” The Lieutenant spoke in a hushed but authoritative tone.
Able to see every feature in the dark room, albeit in a pixelated monochrome green, the soldiers spied another door, which they opened and stepped through. Through the night-vision devices was revealed a storage facility, with rows of shelves and numerous types of supplies stacked on them, including such things as canned foods, drums of water, and various types of weaponry.
Those soldiers wearing the infrared headgear could see even more: numerous warm bodies crouching behind the shelves, showing evidence of automatic weapons.
“Tangos running hot, sir!”
McGougan shouted into the darkness. “We are the army! Throw down your weapons and surrender peacefully.”
It was clear to the soldiers wearing the infrared equipment that these liers-in-wait, limned in the red and orange which stood out from the blueish background colours by the infrared goggles, wore no such gear. It was also clear that, out of the ten men hiding, three were raising their weapons aggressively. The three hidden insurgents who leaned out from their hiding places sprayed bullets in the general direction of the soldiers. A short crackle of army weapons subdued the three rebels, to death.
“Repeat, throw down your weapons and surrender.” The remaining hidden insurgents, after considering for a moment, cast down their armaments, coming out into the open with raised hands.
The soldiers collected and handcuffed the seven remaining insurgents before leading them out of the room, all in complete darkness.
“Clear!”
Having handed off their prisoners at the door, the night-vision soldiers searched for and found yet another door, in a straight line with the other doorways. After doing a complete sweep of the door frame with hand-held metal detectors and x-ray devices, they tried the door handle. Finding it locked, a breaching charge was placed. There was a pop and flash, and the door swung inward. Night-vision and infrared revealed a blindfold man sitting in a chair, restrained at the wrists and ankles with ligatures.
“Clear! Package acquired!”
The figure in the seat turned his head this way and that. “Who’s there?”
“Just a moment sir,” the soldier nearest the General said. He attempted to undo the knot at the back of the blindfold, but was unable to handle it, given the gloves on his hands and limited resolution of his night-vision glasses. Instead he drew a combat knife and slipped it under the blindfold, cutting it away so that it dropped to the General’s lap.
Montgomery blinked against the darkness. “Who is that? Tell me!”
“Sorry sir, please be patient. We have our orders.”
“Orders? Damn it man, I am the highest authority in your chain of– oh. Carry on.”
“Thank you sir.”
The fluorescent light fixtures in the outermost room flickered into life. The General watched as a tall figure in camouflage fatigues and a beret walked toward him, silhouetted against the backlight. As the figure entered the next room, those lights flickered on as well. By the time the tall uniformed man entered the room in which the General sat, he could see clearly in the flickering light.
Montgomery’s jaw dropped. “Your Majesty.”
“Hello Stewart.” The King towered over the seated General, regarding the middle-aged soldier’s bruised and battered face. “Soldier, free the General from his bonds.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” With four deft strokes of the combat knife, the soldier cut the ligatures binding Montgomery’s hands and feet.
He stood, almost nose to nose with the King in the constricted space, before dropping down to one knee and bowing his head. “My King, my life is yours. I pledge my service to your cause is in any way I can, by, or until, my death.”
“And I, King Alfred Jasper Rupert, do confer upon you this day the first knighthood of our New Order. Arise, Sir Stewart Montgomery.”
Montgomery stood, nearly matching the height of the King, casting his eyes downward.
“Look at me, Sir Stewart.”
The General complied. As he did so, his swollen upper lip stiffened as his resolve etched itself into his bruised brow and blackened eyes.
“Now,” the King said with a smile, “I expect you could use a nice strong cup of tea.”
“As a priority, Your Majesty,” Montgomery said, his knees buckling under his lean weight.
The two men clasped their hands behind their backs as they walked through the three brightly lit rooms toward the stairs that led up to the ground floor.
“Ah, Lieutenant,” the General said as he as he laid eyes on his second-in-command. “Thank you for coming to get me. Now, I’ll need a full report on the way back to the house.”
“A pleasure, sir. Good to have you back.”
Here ends Send Him Victorious, Book 1.
The story will continue in Book 2, coming soon.
Thank you for reading!
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed Send Him Victorious. It is a story I have wanted to tell for a long time. I love my characters, and I hope that you do too. Is this the end of the road for them? Perhaps not. There are stories yet to tell concerning the British New Order.
God willing, I will write more of this series. I have huge things planned in this epic saga of my royal family and the world they inhabit.
I love feedback. While this is the story I wanted to tell, I did not write it just for me. I want to know what you liked, what you loved, even what you hated. I’d love to hear from you. You can connect with me at www.facebook.com/b.cline.author. Please like my page and offer some comments, opinions, and questions.
Finally, I need to ask a favour. If you’re so inclined, I’d love a review of Send Him Victorious. Loved, hated, or indifferent, I’d just enjoy your feedback. Reviews can be tough to come by these days, and you, the reader, have the power to make or break a book. If you have the time, please leave a review at goodreads.com, your blog, and your favourite online retailer.
Thank you for reading Send Him Victorious and for spending time with me.
With gratitude,
Bart Cline
Try this other exciting book by Bart Cline:
COPOUT
He's such a good detective he solves cases in his sleep.
Donovan Stone loves three things: movies, police work, and his best friend Jessica. But his abrasive attitude gets him fired from the force. And Jessica won't have him. But in his extremely cinematic dreams Stone processes the clues, and they're coming together. Can he get anyone to listen to him before the terrorists strike again?
Read the first chapter free here, and if you enjoy it consider purchasing the full novel.
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Chapter 1 – Cop
Only your armed response vehicle’s headlights lend any definition to the ramshackle neighbourhood you’re driving through. The flashing lights atop the police car cast eerie shadows in every other direction as you speed down the street. The setting could almost be unreal—your vision is tinged with tiredness, while your mood is reflected in the darkness with its writhing phantoms limned in red and blue. But without doubt it is real. Your dreams are never this ugly.
It’s not even a neighbourhood. It’s a derelict swarm of obsolete architecture that lends your city a black heart. This place gives the most desperate criminals a place to hide. A labyrinth of disused and unwanted edifices, the whole area should have been knocked down decades ago, and but for the efforts of the “Sites of Historic Interest” crowd it would have been.
Your partner sits quietly next to you as your car hurtles through the abandoned city, which begins to look not so abandoned. One of your colleagues, a man whose name you don’t know, stands on patrol outside one of the crumbling brick and cement structures. He is helmeted, decked out in body armour, and armed. He holds his automatic weapon like a second shield across his chest. The grim expression on his face betrays the standard feeling that any of you experience when entering the Outlands, as the former industrial centre is now nicknamed. It may have been better in the past, but now nobody comes here except the vi
Slowing down as you near your destination, you see several other police officers similarly equipped and patrolling. All carrying the same burden of dread, these uniformed constables are normally full of confidence that they will always get their man.
You take your eyes off the road long enough to sneak a glance at your fatigued visage in the rearview mirror, noticing the tired shadows under your eyes. Fortunately, your uniform is smart, giving the proper impression of one of Her Majesty’s police inspectors. Despite the minimalism of today’s police uniforms many of the other officers manage, as the working day lengthens, to look as rumpled as Columbo. Always clean-shaven and well-turned out, you represent the force well. (Never mind how well the force represents you—or not.) Although your uniform is a good ambassador for the force, you’re not always aware of the effect your face has. Like your last name, your face could be stone. Your features are chiselled and hard, and the lines of stress, loss, and premature ageing etch your skin, complementing your weary eyes.
Chief Inspector Hudson waves his arms to get your attention as you approach, having kept an eye on your car from some distance away. He is one of the rumpled Columbos, but he has seniority over you, so you bear with him. Try as you might, his personality resists your efforts to disrespect him.
You bring the car to a nevertheless disrespectful stop scant inches away from him, but he doesn’t flinch. He never does, and that’s why you respect him—or rather don’t disrespect him. You used to call him a friend.
You kill the engine and exit the car, but Hudson says, “Hey Don,” before you even close the door. The Chief Inspector looks tired and drawn as well, although he’s older than you so he’s got just as much of an excuse. But he looks generally more sympathetic and softer than you do. People like him better too. People used to like you. Hudson wasn’t your only friend. A barbecue or a trip to the pub with your colleagues wasn’t out of the question, and sometimes you even extended a kindness to them. They knew you as, if not someone to talk to and confide in, a reliable partner.
Your partner is also out of the vehicle and on his feet but, as usual, he gets away from you as soon as he can, conversing and learning what he can from the other more forthcoming cops nearby.