Edward Hamilton and Lady Elizabeth glided down the corridor in the late night hours, accompanied by the suitably suited Chief of Staff Robinson. In Hamilton’s hand was a wax-sealed invitation. Both wore half-gold masquerade masks.
“Robinson, I do so enjoy the king’s late-night parties. I wonder what top-secret location he has planned for us this time?” said Lady Elizabeth coyly.
“My lady. There are secret rooms in this palace that even you have yet to discover.”
Hamilton squeezed Lady Elizabeth’s hand, enjoying the playful suspense. Robinson led them to a carved grandfather clock and pulled the brass pendulum, triggering the hidden mechanism. With a dull snap, the clock front swung open, exposing the narrow, spiral staircase descending into a disorienting darkness. Murky blue light filtered through cracks in the door at the base of the stairs, beckoning them forward as music hummed faintly beyond. Hamilton laughed. “You’ve done it again, Robinson. This almost beats the stool compartment entrance at the last soiree.”
“Wait until you see the next gathering. This will seem like child's play.”
Lady Elizabeth pushed open the door, the masquerade ball was in full swing. A burlesque dancer moved sensually on a stage against a backdrop of multicolored lights swirling around her feathered costume. Cigarette smoke curled, carrying the aroma of aftershave. Servers in Wehrmacht Nazi uniforms navigated through the crowd, carrying trays of champagne, and BB Balmoral Reserve, of course. It was a toxic atmosphere of masquerade and dominatrix leather.
"The king never fails to outdo himself," Hamilton said, impressed.
“Consider this just an amuse-bouche. We have many dishes here for your delight.”
Robinson was referring to the silver service buffet spread, where the head of MI6 and the Prime Minister were snorting up a deli counter’s worth of cocaine next to an iced swan centerpiece.
Hamilton spied over. “Ah, there’s Roland and Aurelia. Shall we join them in the tasting, my dear?”
“Ooh, I would like to play.”
“Please enjoy the party, sir, my lady.”
Hamilton offered his arm to Lady Elizabeth, slipping through the gala, champagne flutes in hand. Distorted dance floor lights hid the wolf circling the chicken coop—literally. The distinctive slight curl of those thin lips from afar was unmistakable. Magister Gulag entered cane in hand, wearing a wolf-style mask, sauntering into the middle of the party; savoring the champagne bubbles tickling the back of his throat. The king reclined on an extravagant throne. A blonde woman was caressing his knee, laughing, while he held up an English ￡10 note with his profile on it.
“Your Majesty?”
“What is it, Robinson?”
The king reluctantly removed his wandering hand from the woman’s curves, slipping the banknote into his pocket. She pouted. The king gave her a charming smile.
"Tell me, darling, which profile suits me better—the front or the backside?”
The woman gave a flirtatious chuckle, eyeing up the bulge in the king’s trousers. “I’ll have to examine both... won’t I now?”
“Then you shall have a private viewing later. Robinson, you have my full attention. How is the evening going? Is everyone enjoying themselves?”
“Everything is going swimmingly. Apart from an uninvited guest,” Robinson leaned into the king’s ear. “May I point out that you have white power under your nose?”
“Don’t spoil my evening with your petty troubles. Deal with the matter yourself—discreetly.”
Roland Blackwell and Prime Minister Aurelia Ironheart approached the king’s side; causing the king to abruptly nudge the blonde woman from his lap. “I shall see to you later, my filly,” he said dismissively.
“Mr. Blackwell, Prime Minister. I trust the festivities are to your liking?”
“We have been particularly impressed with the spread,” said the Prime Minister.
“Can we discuss some private matters, Your Highness?” intoned Blackwell.
“Robinson, bugger off and make sure everyone’s drinks are full,” said the king, barely acknowledging him.
With a dejected look, Robinson retreated, bowing his head, disappearing into the crowd, fixated on Gulag from behind the ice swan showpiece. Blackwell and the Prime Minister drew the King into conversation, tackling various trade negotiations and private matters.
Outside, a white van with window cleaner ladders mounted on its roof lurched into position behind a succession of willow trees bordering the facade of Buckingham Palace. Gulag hid his face in the shadow of his black dinner jacket, speaking into the concealed microphone. Electronic interference peppered the crackling signal.
“Are you in range?”
Inside the van, Uncle and Petrov monitored the grainy CCTV feeds from the masquerade with Lo Chen. Equipment beeped—wires ran across the floor, while Petrov munched noisily on a meatball sub.
“We are in range,” replied Uncle crisply. “The transmitters are showing a clear signal.”
Petrov gave a gruff chuckle. “Like a fox circling an unwary hare, we close in on our prey!”
Their eyes remained on the screens, watching Gulag stroll among unsuspecting partygoers toward his royal target. “We are going to have a slight delay,” said Gulag. “An idiot is approaching; can you see him?”
“We have confirmed optics. We can see Robinson on our screens now,” said Petrov.
Uncle was drinking a Starbucks coffee, put off by the Russian’s eating habits. “Gulag, remove him—now—be quick about it.”
“How did you even get in here? I oversee the guest lists, Gulag. You’re meant to be overseeing the launch at the facility.”
Gulag spun on his ballroom shoes, extracting a blood-red envelope trimmed with gold leaf from the inner pocket of his tailored jacket, waving it mockingly in Robinson’s face.
“Ah, Robinson, always so dutiful. But the king has a way of ensuring my invitations are... unmissable.”
Robinson examined the gold seal skeptically. Gulag gave him a cool smile. “Did you not know, Robinson? My influence is rising. You should be wary of yours waning.”
“Do you think you can just sweep in here and steal my job?”
“I seek no man’s place. I come only to offer counsel and consultation that the king lacks.”
He tried to brush past, but Robinson grabbed his arm. “Tread carefully. Your games may amuse the king—for now, but they will not amuse me.”
With a practiced motion, Gulag removed Robinson’s hand from his arm—eyes like concrete. “You overstep yourself, Robinson. Perhaps you’ve forgotten who the king favors now. One word from me and the Bloodies could make a midnight visit, dragging you out of your bed while you wet yourself.”
“Don’t threaten me. Remember what I told you? Once you have used up all your worth, you will be dropped like a stone in the Thames; you are not the first person who has tried to undermine my position.”
"Speaking of usefulness, why don’t you check the buffet? Looks a bit empty. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Robinson, I have real work to do."
Gulag threaded his way through, producing from within the folds of his jacket, an exquisite wooden box, its lid inlaid with intricate mosaic patterns. The king looked up, recognizing Gulag at once through his wolf mask.
“Magister, come and join us.”
From the sidelines. Robinson watched; curious as to what Gulag was up to. Gulag smiled enigmatically. Politely acknowledging Blackwell and the Prime Minister. “Your Majesty, I come bearing a small gift as a token of our newly forged alliance.”
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The king raised an eyebrow inquisitively. “Oh? And what might that be?”
Gulag presented the wooden box like he was giving a present to a child. “A gesture from myself and all your engineers at the compound, Your Highness.”
The king unveiled the box, staring at a slick black tablet. “What does it do? It’s a bit of a strange gift.”
“All shall be revealed.”
With a swipe of his hand, Gulag triggered the display, illustrating a map of the English coastline. Several icon markers indicated submarine bases in the Royal Fleet’s strongholds. It also included a sub-menu for ships and other vessels already out in operation.
“With this device, you can deploy any vessel within your fleet with a simple command. There is no need to travel to any of your bases in person. You can just take the middleman out and start your missions autonomously—if the mood suits you, that is.”
“It’s a nice little gizmo—Gulag!”
“The user interface has been designed in the style of an iPhone. You should find the layout quite user-friendly.” Gulag passed it over. “Why don’t you have a little play around?”
The King studied the tactical display. He was blown away by the complex network of icons, representing submarines of various classes: ballistic missile subs, fast-attack boats, and stealthy surveillance vessels. He could monitor their movements in real-time, a god-like perspective on his global maritime domain.
“Furthermore, you can even customize the missions,” said Gulag.
“Select a target, choose your weapons, and instantaneously your subs will be underway.”
Gulag tapped a few icons for him on the screen, deploying simulated submarines on the map for demonstration purposes.
“Ingenious!” the king exclaimed, his eyes lighting up as he scrolled through the menus.
“This will make managing my navy vastly more efficient.”
Robinson slipped between Blackwell and the Prime Minister, realizing he had not reviewed or signed off on this technology before Gulag had presented it to the king.
“Your Majesty, this technology is untested—Gulag hasn’t cleared it through me. You could be putting our fleet at risk.”
“Our fleet? My fleet. Shut up, Robinson; you always spoil the fun out of everything. I don’t remember you ever bringing me such nice presents.”
“It is but a humble gift,” Gulag said.
“I thought it would be appropriate for you to launch the first deployment. With a single push of a button. Your submarines can be dispatched to anywhere in the world, their canisters unleashing Ferox 13 upon your enemies.”
The king stroked the tech pad lovingly, fascinated by its potential. Robinson could see his position slipping away, comprehending that Gulag’s tech had given the king exactly what he craved most—control.
“Your Majesty, a speech would be most be-fitting. To celebrate this historic occasion. The whole room should hear of your glory!”
“An inspiring idea, Gulag!”
Uncle smiled. “Very good, Gulag. Here comes the money shot.”
Petrov wiped the meatball dressing from his mouth while Lo Chen prepped the recording equipment to capture the king’s incriminating speech on video. In an instant, the mood shifted as the king motioned for the music to stop. The burlesque dancer froze mid-turn, lights dimming to a single spotlight on the king, with the Prime Minister and Roland Blackwell on either side. They looked like a dance troupe on Broadway. Partygoers turned curiously, sensing something monumental was about to happen.
“Friends and benefactors,” the king bellowed. "Tonight marks something very special. Our fleet sets sail not with weapons of war, but with the tools of chaos. Ferox 13 will truly be a worldwide disaster!"
Gulag stood back, observing next to Robinson, who had been demoted to nothing more than a glorified party organizer, much to Gulag’s delight. Robinson’s fists clenched behind his back. Gulag’s smugness was insufferable, but the king’s growing trust in him was worse. He had to tread carefully—too much protest, and he’d be out on his ear.
“I must extend to the Prime Minister and her Conservative Party my deepest gratitude for supporting this vital operation. And of course, I must thank Roland Blackwell of MI6 for his efforts behind the scenes on the logistical side of things.”
Blackwell beamed with pride, and Prime Minister Aurelia Ironheart inclined her head behind her gimp mask.
“It is my privilege to serve the Crown, Your Majesty.”
A murmur of assent rippled through the crowd, mainly Conservative Party members and government officials, envisioning the gold rush coming their way.
“Once the antidote has been administered, each of you will be generously compensated for your respective roles in helping spread the virus to our enemies.”
Scattered applause broke out as Gold members eyed each other eagerly. Uncle shook his head.
“What a fool, handing us his secrets on a silver platter. He thinks he can outmaneuver China?”
Petrov chuckled. “Such a fool. The great ruler, strung along like a puppet. Wait until President Pushkin has this on home video.”
They laughed and laughed. His Majesty was completely oblivious to how easily he was being manipulated. The king rose to his feet, clutching the black tech pad. An air of expectant suspense gripped the room, revelers looked at one another, anticipating the launch. Lady Elizabeth felt a thrill of nervous excitement. She shouted above the hullabaloo.
“We want a countdown!”
The idea caught on like a plague, with partygoers joining the chant. “Five! Four! Three!”
The king’s eyes lit up with fierce triumph—ready to punch the launch icon. This was the moment he had envisioned for so long—a chance to spread chaos under his reign.
Lady Elizabeth yelled, “Two!”
And the crowd followed suit, voices overlapping. “One!”
His thumb hovered over the screen. He could almost taste the salty sea air, picturing submarines slicing through the waves. With a victorious flourish, the king pressed the icon with a dramatic “Zero!”
The king threw his head back in giddy delight. Gulag pulled a camera from his jacket; snapping a shot of the king doubled over in gleeful laughter, his finger still pressed triumphantly on the launch button. Instantly, the map flared up, with simulated blue dots about to race out to sea to a thunderous round of applause from the cheering revelers. Champagne corks popped. The burlesque dancer struck a pose with spotlights swirling. The king guzzled from the bottle. “Let the celebrations continue!”
As the party resumed in full fervor, Gulag allowed himself a thin smile. The blackmail material gathered would keep the king—and all his conspirators—firmly under his control for years to come if he wanted to. The king may have launched his attack, but tonight, the true victory belonged to him. He melted back into the festivities, already planning his next move.
**********
On the northern coast of Great Britain, the complex communications systems sprang to life upon receiving the launch codes from Buckingham Palace. Secure encrypted channels on secret frequencies established contact, blocking outside interference through sophisticated shielding techniques. Automatically, the electrical and hydraulic connections separated the submarines from their moorings. The ballast tanks flooded. Slowly, the submarines sank, swallowed by the blackness of the sea. The sound started as a beep. Then came a deep, rumbling rumble, like the crashing of a distant waterfall. Submarines were about to embark on their voyage from the docks. A gateway to the North Sea. All watched from the control room transfixed. Black hulls slipped beneath the waters. The ballast tanks were then blasted dry, and then the vessels rose in unison to the surface.
“All submarines are clear of the berths,” the lookout reported.
“Very well,” said the first officer. “Commence movement.”
Yellow lights faded into the undersea twilight. One by one, the submarines began their steady course, accelerating away between the rocky bottoms of the cliffs.
“Submarine 16, are you all good on there?” the first officer asked over the signal.
“We are indeed,” Asp replied.
“Just sit tight; you will be there in no time.”
“Over and out,” Asp’s voice cut out.
Each submarine adjusted course, programmed for solitary journeys to unleash Ferox 13 across the globe. Lo Chen slammed his foot down on the accelerator. Speeding away with the incriminating footage stored on their hard drives.
“Stage one is complete!” said Petrov.
“With this recording, we have the king and all his cronies by the balls.”
“These novices think they have spawned disorder,” Uncle said. “It is us that has the advantage!”
The masquerade party continued with the king sitting in his chair and the blonde groupie back on his knee. “Would you like to see the king’s bedroom?”
“What would your wife say?”
The king slowly caressed her milky white thighs, his fingers trailing along her bare skin toward the slit of her stockings. “Don’t worry. The old bag is on a state visit in Cape Town; inspecting some diamond mines for me.”
He scooped up the crumpet in his arms, with the guards opening a door for him, and he left the party with her giggling in his ear like a cooing dove. Robinson approached Gulag at the buffet table, his frowning brow wreathed in suspicion. “What have you done? I didn’t commission you to do any of this charade.”
Gulag was picking at a side of smoked salmon. “Robinson, it would be best if you learned to understand that I have been promoted to deal with the Royal family’s most important affairs from now on."
“And exactly when was this decreed again?”
“When I pointed out to him that your value is more on the level of mid-management, an errand boy if you will. You’re a loyal one, I give you that, Robinson.”
Gulag picked at a piece of salmon tailbone stuck between his teeth with a cocktail stick. “Can you talk to the kitchen staff? Loose bones in the food doesn't look good to our guests.”
Gulag walked away, savoring his victory.
