Loyalists
by Mark Anthony Brennan
 

This story originally appeared in Hadrosaur Tales.

A sudden wind whipped across the landing field. Hamilton turned up the collar of his overcoat, shivering as the wind drove the rain into his face. The two Special Service agents that walked on either side of him appeared not to notice the sudden chill. Their eyes kept darting around the vast open space, looking for any sign of danger.

Hamilton smiled to himself. He appreciated the agents' devotion to their job, but it was ludicrous for them to be concerned for his safety at this particular moment. The landing field was clearly deserted except for the large dirigible that now hung above their heads. Aside from the occupants of that airship there was nobody within several hundred yards of them.

Hamilton paused at the foot of the steps of the boarding platform. He glanced back towards the far end of the landing field where a large hulking building formed a dark silhouette against the fading light of the evening sky. Through the driving rain several lights twinkled in the darkness that was the British Parliament Buildings.

How could he leave right now? Over in Europe there was a crisis brewing in England. This was no time for him to be leaving New London for a trip up to Baltimore. But, it couldn't be helped. His Majesty's Chief Advisor, Sir Edgar Blackwell, made it abundantly clear that this meeting with the King was absolutely imperative.

The dirigible creaked as it strained against the ropes holding it down. There was also the distant sound of a few flaps fluttering in the wind. Beyond that it was remarkably quiet. It always struck Hamilton how graceful and silent these airships could be given their massive size.

The door to the airship's cabin opened. Hamilton and his two guards trotted up the steps and made their way across the boarding platform. In the doorway stood a small, balding man. It was the steward, Jenkins. He gave Hamilton a nod of his head.

"Good evening, Mr. Prime Minister," said Jenkins. "Welcome aboard His Majesty's Royal Airship. I hope your trip to Baltimore Palace will be a pleasant one. Watch your step, sir."    

* * *

The Englishman parted the curtain to peer down at the street below. It was illuminated with newly installed electric streetlights. Normally Wilhelmstrasse would be bustling with automobiles, electric buses and horse-drawn carts. But at this time of night the dark, somber buildings of central Berlin stood guard over an empty street.

"A drink, mein Herr?"

The Englishman groaned inwardly. He really needed a drink but he doubted his German host would have a decent scotch in the place.

"Yes," said the Englishman, turning away from the window. "Scotch, if you have it."

"Of course," said Leiben, stepping over to his liquor cabinet.

The Englishman settled himself into one of the large armchairs next to the fire. Hung on the wall above the mantle-piece was a beautifully preserved saber with a purple sash. Below the saber, on a large wooden mantle-piece, there were German helmets and some photographs depicting tanks, ships and aeroplanes. These were mementos. Mementos from wars that were fought primarily against the British.

"Here you are," said Leiben, handing the Englishman a drink before seating himself in an armchair.

"Thank you, Karl."

The Englishman took a sip. It wasn't good scotch, but the warmth it spread through his stomach felt comforting. He took another sip and waited for the glow to reach his head and take away the dark edge of his mood. He was startled when the telephone rang on the table next to Leiben.

Leiben listened to the telephone for a while without speaking. Then he finally said, "Ya. Danke."

"Not long now," Leiben said after he put the telephone down.

The Englishman frowned. He realized it would take more than a few sips of scotch to ease his mood.

* * *

Rain lashed against the window causing the image of the white lights below to blur and run down the pane. Hamilton sighed and swirled the remains of his scotch around the bottom of his glass. Across the table Blackwell screwed up his face in disgust.

"Good lord, I don't know why we can't get a decent malt on this flight."

Hamilton shrugged. "Oh, I don't know, Edgar. Tastes fine to me."

"You're as gracious as ever, Phillip," grinned Blackwell. "Must be your southern upbringing."

Hamilton smiled but didn't reply. He was disappointed that he couldn't see the view of the city below. He'd taken this trip to the Royal Palace at Baltimore often. It was best at night when the lights of New London shimmered around the black waters of the Potomac. The capital would glitter like a jewel - the crown jewel in the center of the British Empire.

But tonight the view was lost in the swirling, wet blackness.

"A foul night," said Blackwell, following Hamilton's gaze.

"Yes, but His Majesty cannot be kept waiting can he, Sir Edgar?"

"No, Mister Prime Minister." Blackwell polished off his scotch with a grimace. "You know, Phillip, you cannot discount the importance of the King's opinion in this affair."

Hamilton paused before answering. Except for the distant hum of the motors above them the cabin was silent. There were staff members at either end of the cabin but in the middle Hamilton and Blackwell sat alone.

"I don’t, Edgar. This isn't a constitutional issue, for god's sake. Besides, I'm consulting with him now, aren't I?"

"Only because he requested this meeting." Blackwell stared levelly at Hamilton. "This English crisis is of vital concern to His Majesty. He feels you have already made up your mind."

"We are the government, Sir Edgar," said Hamilton, matching Blackwell's stare. "I trust His Majesty does not forget that."

"Oh, come now, Phillip," said Blackwell, waving to the steward, "when has the King ever interfered with Parliament? But this is different, and you know it. We're talking about England, man. The secession of England from the Empire would be devastating."

"I know, Edgar, I know. Don't misunderstand me - I can certainly see why His Majesty would be concerned."

"Do you?" asked Blackwell, raising an eyebrow. "Sometimes I wonder how loyal a subject you are, old man. I've heard your speeches, Phillip. 'The rule of law is our greatest gift to the world'?"

Hamilton's nostrils flared. He hardly needed a criticism from this over-privileged old windbag. "And you see that as anti-monarchist? It isn't. Democracy and the rule of law are the greatest gifts the British Empire brings to the world. The King as the head of state represents those values. The fact that the government is elected by the people and is ruled by law does not detract from that."

Jenkins made his way down the aisle from the rear of the cabin. The wind buffeting the dirigible caused the cabin to sway, but the steward carried his tray with perfect balance, never missing a step. He wore a red tunic with raised black trim. His dignity and grace matched the elegance of the cabin itself with its polished oak tables and trim and its black leather seats.

"Ah, Jenkins," said Blackwell when the steward reached their table, "I suppose I'll have another one of these ghastly scotches."

"Very well, sir. And you, Prime Minister?"

"Jenkins can get you a bourbon," offered Blackwell, "if that's what you prefer."

"No, thank you, really. Nothing for me, Jenkins."

Jenkins nodded to the two men and then headed back towards the rear of the cabin. Just by the curtain that separated the small kitchen from the main part of the cabin Jenkins passed by four men dressed in somber black suits. The two on the left side of the aisle were the agents that had accompanied Hamilton on the landing field. The two on the right had already been on board, checking out the security of the airship prior to Hamilton's arrival. They all looked uncomfortable as they sat bolt upright in their seats, unnaturally rigid. These agents of the Special Service accompanied the Prime Minister wherever he went. They all bore that intense look in their eye, as if they could never relax.

Hamilton peered over his shoulder towards the opposite end of the cabin. There at the front were three men, one seated and two standing with their backs to the huge front window. They wore the red and black uniforms of the King's Royal House Guard. Unlike their Special Service counterparts these men seemed bored and detached as they surveyed the room. Hamilton turned back to face Blackwell.

"As the King's Chief Advisor you should be aware that the situation in England does not lend itself to simple solutions. Republicanism over there is not a mere threat, it is a fact. A recent poll indicated that over 85% of the English population favors the formation of an independent English republic."

"Please don't be patronizing, Phillip. We're quite aware of the situation. It's not exactly news. The English have been disgruntled for the better part of a century now." 

"Yes. Ever since the monarchy was moved to America."

Blackwell raised an eyebrow. "You're blaming this on the monarchy? The King has always maintained strong ties to the Empire's birthplace. England feels neglected because of your government's priorities."

" This is no longer the nineteenth century," said Hamilton. He briefly glanced at the elegant room around them. "And this is no longer an old boys' club to protect the interests of those of us who happen to be white and Anglo-Saxon. Our government represents all British peoples, Sir Edgar, whether they live in America, Australia or the darkest corner of Africa. We bring equality and fairness to everyone within our realm, regardless of race, color or creed. Besides, England enjoys more autonomy within the Empire than most. The English Home Legislature--"

"Is a joke, Mr. Prime Minister," said Blackwell, cutting Hamilton short. "A puppet show."

Hamilton's felt his anger rising again. "The Scottish and Irish don't feel that way about their Home Legislatures. Of course they are both pushing for greater autonomy, but in neither country is there any talk, not even a hint, of independence. Let's face it, Edgar, it's the bloody Germans."

* * *

The grandfather clock in the far corner ticked loudly. The Englishman wished he could block out the noise, but the more he tried the louder the ticking seemed to be.

"New London has become self-centered," Leiben was saying, "and the Empire is decadent. They have become myopic when it comes to the state of the world today. This is 1935 and they still act like Victoria was on the throne."

"I know, Karl, I know. Hamilton and his government fail to recognize the importance that countries place on the right to govern themselves. We have our own unique values. English values…European values."

Leiben smiled. "You are right, my friend. England must be free. Free to forge it's own destiny. You must take your proper place in the Europe of the twentieth century."

The Englishman nodded but did not return the smile. "Here's to freedom," he said, raising his glass.

* * *

"Yes, that's one unholy alliance," said Blackwell, pinching his forehead, "England and Germany."

Hamilton shrugged. "Being British it's hard for us to understand. But for the English it's just a natural match. They are disenchanted with the Empire and wish to form their own identity. A young, emerging power like Germany they see as their natural partner. The two of them see themselves as the leaders of the new Europe."

"Together they'd be formidable," muttered Blackwell.

"Exactly. That's our quandary, Sir Edgar." The wind was starting to howl outside. The cabin rocked more noticeably than before. "Do we allow England to secede knowing that they will ally themselves with Germany?"

Blackwell frowned, then looked over his shoulder. "Where the devil is Jenkins?" He turned back to face Hamilton. "But, Phillip, as powerful as they may be in Europe they'd be no match for the Empire."

"Strictly speaking, no. Of course not. In conventional warfare, there's no question. They'd be crushed with only a fraction of our forces."

"What do you mean, 'conventional'? What other forms of warfare are there?"

"Well," said Hamilton, "the English and Germans have, together, made some interesting strides in science and technology. Communications mainly."

"I heard about this idea that they have - to send rockets up to place artificial satellites in orbit around the Earth. Even if they can pull that off, surely we're talking years down the road."

"Oh, they're closer than you think, Edgar. But that's not it. Our intelligence in Europe tells us they are testing these rockets to carry weapons. So there's the potential they could shoot these rockets across countries. Across the ocean even. And they could carry bombs. Perhaps even this atom bomb they are talking about."

Blackwell frowned. "I can't say I understand all that stuff that Einstein talked about, but really, Phillip, dividing atoms in a test-tube? Do you seriously think that could be a viable weapon?"

"Well, with the assistance of our English friends, the Germans have been working on it for some time. I … well, no, it doesn't seem very likely. It's all propaganda, I'm sure. But, we can't take the chance of allowing England and Germany to unite. It's too risky to the integrity of the Empire."

"So, you won't even listen to the King's suggestion that we conciliate with England?"

"I will listen to anything that the King has to offer, naturally. But you should know that my cabinet is quite resolved. England must remain under our control. At all costs."

"Even if that means by using military force?"

"They have threatened us. No-one gives the Empire ultimatums. No-one."

Blackwell sighed. "His Majesty will not be pleased. England is … well, England. The very thought of directing our own forces against her is … "

"Don't you think I know that?" The cabin suddenly swung deeply making Hamilton's stomach heave. "Have you ever considered getting an aeroplane? You know, they're more stable in bad weather."

Blackwell smirked. "You must be joking, old man. His Majesty would never be caught dead in one of those. Far too cramped and noisy--" Blackwell's smirked vanished. The color drained from his face.

Hamilton spun around to see what Blackwell was staring at. Panic rose in his chest as he saw one of the Royal House Guards approaching them down the aisle. The guard had his pistol out and had it pointed directly at Hamilton and Blackwell.

Hamilton's eyes darted, scanning the front of the cabin for any sign of the other two guards. Then he noticed the legs on the ground extended out into the aisle.

What on Earth …

Hamilton turned back to face the rear. His agents were no longer sitting bolt upright - they were slumped over in their seats. Or at least three of them were.

The curtain to the kitchen area rustled and then parted. The fourth agent stepped through the curtain and into the main cabin area. He looked at Hamilton grimly as he raised his pistol. He kept the pistol aimed at Hamilton as he strode down the aisle.

"Lloyd," whispered Hamilton.

"Please don't either of you move," said the Royal House Guard, who was now standing at the end of their table.

"Wilkinson, what is this?" hissed Blackwell.

"Please be quiet, sir," said Wilkinson. "You'll understand everything soon enough."

"The other men," said Hamilton. He was surprised how calm his own voice sounded. "What have you done with the other men?"

"They'll be fine," said Lloyd, taking his place next to Wilkinson.

"You're both English, aren't you?" said Blackwell. "Is that what this is about?"

Both men nodded.

"But, Lloyd," sputtered Hamilton. "You've been in the service for years. Your background is impeccable. I knew your father--"

"Don't mention my father," said Lloyd curtly. "If he was alive today he wouldn't believe what the Empire has become. What England has become."

"But I don't understand--" started Hamilton.

"That is precisely the problem, sir. You don't understand. Why should the affairs of England be dictated by some … Americans."

"Steady on there," said Blackwell. "We're all British after all."

"That's where you are wrong, sir," said Wilkinson. "We are, in fact, English. We just wish to be free. Is that so hard for you to understand?"

"We don't have much time," said Lloyd. He reached under his jacket and pulled out a pocket watch. "Very soon you will receive a message." Lloyd looked down at his watch. "Very soon. We've tried to do this in other ways but you would not listen. You give us no choice. You have refused to listen to us."

"English independence?" asked Hamilton. "No, we won't contemplate that. It's nationalism, which is just another form of tribalism. It's primitive."

"A people have the right to govern themselves," said Lloyd. "They need a government that's truly representative."

"Don't preach to me about democracy, Lloyd," replied Hamilton. "It's what the Empire is all about. Not this petty regionalism that you're advocating, but true universal equality--"

"All right, all right," snapped Wilkinson. "Enough of this. You must understand this message you are about to receive. It is only a taste of what we can do. Remember that what we do today we can do anywhere, at any time. Please don't continue to fight us."

"Are you threatening the Empire?" demanded Hamilton. At that moment he couldn't have cared if the two men shot him. "Are you mad, man? Think about what you're saying. You can't possibly stand up to the might of the British Empire."

"We can. You must listen--"

There was a blinding flash from the front of the cabin and everything turned white.

What in god's name?

Everything remained white for several seconds. Hamilton raised his hands to his eyes and blinked. The whiteness was fading but he still couldn't see.

God, I'm blind.

Someone yelled, "Hang on!" The cabin was shaking and there was a rumbling sound like thunder. The thunder got louder. From the kitchen there came sounds of crashing glasses and plates. Through a reddish fog Hamilton saw Wilkinson and Lloyd desperately hanging on to the back of seats as the cabin shook more and more violently. The thunder was getting louder. Painfully loud. Then…

Kaboom!

The windows shattered as the cabin was rocked by a tremendous explosion. Hamilton was tossed into the air. He caught a fleeting glimpse of Lloyd falling backwards through the side window, screaming as he went. Other bodies were flying around the cabin. Hamilton's head struck something hard but he kept on tumbling. His body was struck several times by tables and seats before he finally came to a stop.

He wasn't sure where he was at first. There were no lights on in the cabin, but his vision seemed to be back to normal because he could make out dim figures in the gloom. He was wedged between a seat and a table. He sat up on the seat with a grunt. There was a searing pain at the back of his head and his whole body ached. But he was alive, and not seriously hurt.

"Edgar!"

A groan came from several feet away. "Here, Phillip," rasped Blackwell.

Hamilton struggled to his feet and fumbled his way down the aisle. In the darkness it took a few stumbling steps before Hamilton realized the cabin was listing to one side. The raging wind blew the rain through the broken windows, soaking everything. It was bitter cold. Above the howling of the wind there was no sound. The engines had apparently stopped.

Hamilton almost tripped over Blackwell who was sitting in the aisle with his back against a seat. Even in the gloom Hamilton saw that his friend was a mess. Blackwell's hair was disheveled and his clothing was ripped in several places. When Hamilton knelt down he could see blood on Blackwell's face.

"How are you, Edgar?"

"Oh … umm … alive at least," said Blackwell. "My bloody arm is broken though, I think."

"All right. Don't move."

Just beyond Blackwell there was a body lying face down. Hamilton crawled over, wincing in pain with each move. It was Wilkinson. He looked to be in bad shape as well. Hamilton thought perhaps he was dead until he heard his gurgling breath. Wilkinson was unconscious but alive.

There was a sound overhead like a door opening. A glow appeared in the center of the ceiling. It was above the metal, spiral staircase that led to the cockpit. The glow grew brighter, filling the whole cabin with a yellowish light. Then a man appeared at the top of the stairs. It was the pilot carrying an oil lantern.

"Hello down there," he yelled.

"Over here," called Hamilton.

The pilot hurried down the stairs and made his way over to Hamilton. The pilot's uniform was rumpled but he appeared to be unhurt.

"What the hell happened?" demanded Hamilton. "Were we hit?"

"No, sir. It was a shock wave. From a massive explosion ahead of us. Look."

Hamilton rose unsteadily to his feet. He put his hand up to brace his face against the wind. Then blinking through the rain he peered through the broken front window.

"Good god!" he croaked.

Directly ahead of them there was a cloud formed into a column rising into the air. It was difficult for Hamilton to judge the distance, but the cloud had to be many miles away and yet it was still huge. Incredibly huge. The entire column was glowing, especially the lower portion which shone like a cylindrical white flame. Near the top of the rising column there was another cloud which formed a ring around the column.

"Baltimore Palace," mumbled Hamilton.

"What could cause that, sir?" asked the pilot, looking at Hamilton with fear in his eyes.

"They did it. Dear lord in heaven, they did it." Hamilton stared at the glowing column in stunned silence for several seconds. Then he took a deep breath and turned to the pilot. "What's our status?"

"Well, the blast knocked out our engines and we have no power. Although it's difficult for me to determine the full extent of the damage, we seem to be fairly intact otherwise."

"What does that mean?"

"The old girl can roll with the punches," said the pilot, flashing a brief grin. "We'll stay aloft, sir. I have little or no control over steering, but once we reach a safe destination I can manually put us down. We're safe for now."

Safe? Hamilton doubted he'd ever feel safe again.

Blackwell moaned in pain at their feet.

"Does he require medical attention?" asked the pilot.

"Yes, his arm is broken. He may have other injuries. But first, check on all the other men. Oh, and tie this bugger up," said Hamilton pointing at Wilkinson. "And look around for his bloody gun."

* * *

Leiben put the phone down gently. He paused for a second before turning to face the Englishman.

"It is done," Leiben said quietly.

The Englishman closed his eyes and leaned his head back. "Do you think they'll understand?"

"They must, my friend. With such a demonstration, they must surely understand."

The Englishman sighed and brought his head down to face his companion. "God almighty. Karl. Do you have a cigar around this place?"

* * *

In the light of the lantern Blackwell looked ghastly. His face was pale and drawn. There was an ugly bruise on one cheek and he was still bleeding from several cuts. Touching his own face tenderly, Hamilton realized that he probably didn’t look any better himself.

"We couldn't find Smith, I'm afraid," said Hamilton. "Poor fellow. Must've gone out the same way as Lloyd. But other than that, we're fine. Jenkins, your men, my men, they're all unconscious but all right. They were knocked out with something. Some concoction or other."

Blackwell nodded and closed his eyes. When he opened them he looked feebly at Hamilton. "The King is dead, Phillip. Whatever are we going to do?"

Hamilton grimaced. "We fight, sir." The white cloud column was passing by a side window. The airship had changed direction, they were now drifting. But at least they were still floating. "The King may be dead but not those things that he stood for - all the things we hold dear. We fight these bastards."

"But … this bomb."

"Hell, man, they can't keep this up. One bloody bomb and they expect us to run hiding?"

Blackwell winced in pain. Then he sighed. "You are right, Mr. Prime Minister. Of course, you are right. We must fight." Blackwell smiled weakly. "For the Empire, eh?"

"For the King, Edgar. For King and Empire."

* * *

The Englishman slowly rose from the armchair. "I must be going, Karl. I have to get back to England immediately. My War Cabinet awaits."

"Yes, of course. My valet will get your coat."

Leiben pulled the cord hanging from the ceiling, summoning his servant. Then he walked over to the fire and gazed into the flames.

"Um, what," Leiben muttered with his head still down, "what if they don't take sufficient heed of this … message?"

"What are you saying?"

Leiben turned to face his guest. "I mean, how far are we willing to go?"

The Englishman stuck his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat and glared at his German host. "We shall never surrender," he growled, "whatever the cost may be."

"Of course, Winston. Of course."

THE END