Chapter 11 Long Live the King
His Majesty jumped out of the helicopter dressed in his navy blue pilot's suit as the briny bite of coastal winds whipped around his thinning gray hair. He set off across the helipad, Robinson ever his shadow peppered him with updates, fighting to keep pace with the king's brisk pace. Once they had passed security into the main facility. The king said in a frustrated tone.
"I have received the latest operational reports across my desk this morning. My fleet has been having trouble with the Somali pirates again."
"What's got them riled up this time, Your Highness?"
"They are Bloody demanding more danger money, can you believe it?"
"Danger money, Your Highness? With the split they already get?"
"Seventy-thirty, isn't that generous enough? Greedy buggers, the lot of them. Add it to your list. Make it a top priority, Robinson!"
"A 30% profit share is most generous Your Highness. I will add it to my to-do list. The staff are waiting for your inspection by the way."
"Let's get it done and over with then."
They strolled past the personnel. All stood ramrod straight, saluting the king in perfect rhythm. The king's keen eyes swept over the staff scanning for any twitch or flinch, adhering to his typical protocol.
"Where's Gulag?" the king asked slightly annoyed.
"I did inform him of your arrival time, Your Highness. He is petulant at the best of times."
The steady drone of Robinson's voice was soon interrupted by the sound of vibrating metal.
Magister Gulag, in a cream bathrobe, headed down the stairs from his staff quarters. The Bloodies followed him like a bunch of renegades.
"Gulag, you seem to be developing quite a knack for grand entrances," the king said, noting his inappropriate bathrobe.
Gulag threw back his head and laughed.
"That is something we both have in common, Your Majesty. A flair for the dramatic, shall we say?"
"I had to cancel a cancer charity benefit to come here so abruptly."
Gulag bowed his head.
"Apologies, Your Majesty for pulling you away from your duties, most will be terminally ill anyway. But I believe you'll find our progress worth the interruption."
"Robinson has told me that you've made some significant advances."
"Indeed, sire," Gulag said eagerly.
"I think you'll be quite pleased with what we have to show you."
"Very well." The king gestured for Gulag to proceed.
"Lead the way and show me these significant advances you mention."
Gulag instructed to Asp and Dante.
"Inspect the subject. Make sure we are ready for testing. Pronto!"
"Yes, Magister," Asp answered before scurrying off.
With the king and Robinson trailing behind. Gulag marched through the busy main area. The gleaming submarines sat perfectly aligned primed and ready to go at a moment's notice across the docks. Engineers scattered with a dismissive wave from Gulag, clearing the way for the King's undisturbed inspection. The trio walked along a docking bay to a matte black submarine bobbing in its berth, its dark hull barely visible against the murky water below.
A gangplank led to a heavy scuttle hatch, which hissed open with a metallic groan, to reveal an engineer standing at attention; his face was highlighted by the crimson interior lights.
"You'll have to hold on tight to the ladder; it's a bit wobbly on the way down," the engineer said.
He held out his hands, helping everyone aboard.
"This is not my first time, young man," the king said, almost slipping. "I did a stint in the Navy when I was younger."
"Easy there, Rambo," Gulag taunted while he slid down the ladder after Robinson with aplomb.
"Shut up, Gulag," the king snarked.
The king's blue jumpsuit stood out against the bathed red emergency lighting when his feet landed in the cramped passageway.
"Follow me, please, Your Highness," the engineer said, commencing the tour.
Although the submarine was not the biggest in its class, the central corridor twisted and turned enough for somebody to get lost in. Its curved inner shell was lined with steel structures and utilitarian fixtures. Branches peeled off at intersections, leading to smaller corridors and chambers. Delving deeper into the sub, the king noticed the smell of old metal and rusting steel mixed with a musty note emanating from aging wooden crates in what appeared to be a cargo hold.
Dust from strange metallic cylinders coated the king's brown leather pilot's gloves when he inspected one of the crates. The label revealed Germany as its point of target, with a serial number etched into its outer packaging.
"We have had our engineers working around the clock converting this vessel on Gulag's orders, your Highness," Robinson explained.
"You wanted the brilliance of my mind, Your Majesty."
Gulag pointed to one of the serial numbers on one of the cylinders.
"These codes represent the coordinates for one of Germany's major water treatment plants," Gulag explained.
"When scanned with the submarine's automated delivery systems, It will calculate the precise angle and velocity needed to launch these payloads underwater like a bullseye into the intake channels."
"Mmm, interesting. Is the product finished and fully fleshed out?" The king asked.
"I call it Ferox 13. My great work. A virus genetically engineered to target the entire population of Germany, if I choose to do so. In this cargo bay, torpedo launchers are ready to deliver the virus now. Fully finished."
"So Gulag. Let me get this straight: you intend to launch the virus against Germany from my submarine. For preliminary testing?"
Before Gulag could answer, Robinson spoke hesitantly.
"Your Highness, Gulag's intentions go far beyond Germany."
The King gave Robinson a quizzical look.
"The entire submarine fleet has been converted to carry Gulag's deadly cargo. Not just to Germany... but to every major city on the planet."
The king looked at Gulag, whose face remained covered.
Robinson went on. "I was afraid to reveal the full extent of Gulag's mad plans."
Gulag rolled his eyes.
"Your caution betrays a smallness of vision that bores me, Robinson!"
"The scope and ingenuity of your plans are quite astounding, Gulag," the king said.
"But what contingencies do you have in place if things go awry? Have you considered that it all might backfire, like a badly stuffed goose? Leading your problems straight back to me at Buckingham Palace?"
"You commanded that the goose needed to be stuffed and roasted, sire," Gulag retorted cuttingly.
"You sponsored this whole dam project! So do not squawk to me now about having feathers in your mouth from a meal you demanded. I have worked my bollocks off!"
The king remained skeptical, pondering Gulag's comment before responding.
"Your plans sound impressive. But I cannot greenlight anything without seeing any evidence. Show me proof that these claims are not just mere boasts," the king demanded.
Gulag's eyes gleamed with sinister humor.
"Funny, you should say that, Your Majesty. We happen to have a little demonstration prepared for you."
"A demonstration involving what exactly?"
Gulag smiled enigmatically. "Nothing that needs to cause further royal fussing, sire. Just a simple test to prove the effectiveness of Ferox 13."
After a moment of thoughtful silence, the king spoke.
"Lead on, gentlemen, let us see this demonstration of yours."
The destination was only a short trek from the main docking area. Robinson produced a set of skeleton keys for a steel door tucked into a nook, which opened to concrete steps, that delved deeper into the subterranean recesses of the rocky Islet. Their silhouettes grew on the damp stone walls. Distant screams echoed alongside the crashing of waves from above on the way down. They came to another door, its hinges rusted, its frame fused into the stone wall at an odd angle.
Robinson placed the chunky key into the slot, his hand on the doorknob.
"Your Majesty, these tunnels were used as makeshift POW holding cells during both World Wars, housing prisoners for the entire duration of each conflict. These tunnels are steeped in history."
"Indeed, the history of these tunnels is no doubt fascinating."
His mind, however, remained solely focused on Gulag's demonstration.
Gulag laughed grimly. "Yes, these tunnels likely saw their fair share of human misery. But they serve a new purpose today."
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With a twist, Robinson pushed open the heavy door, entering them to a long sterile hallway lined with identical perspex cells.
Prisoners peered through the windows on either side, following the party as they walked past.
Some prisoners gaped curiously at the King, wondering if that was really him, while others looked at Gulag with naked fear and hostility in their haggard faces.
Gulag pointed nonchalantly at one of the prisoners.
"These are just common criminals from the UK prison system, scheduled for termination. They were used while I was ironing out a few kinks with the formula," Gulag explained.
Behind the perspex, the prisoner's shoulders slumped. He turned away, the futility of his situation evident in his dejected posture.
"I hate to be the pot calling the kettle black Gulag, but aren't we all criminals here?" Robinson quipped with a wry smile on his face.
Gulag and the King both made indifferent faces at Robinson.
"Be quiet, Robinson. Your comments are not welcome," the king said.
Further down the stoned floored corridor, the atmosphere grew increasingly hostile. The men inside showed higher levels of aggression, spraying scum from their mouths. It dripped down from inside their entrapments. Slamming, clenched fists smacked against the walls until their knuckles bled. Hurling streams of obscenities flew in Gulag's direction. Disgust and pathological fascination played across the king's features.
"They almost resemble primates," he remarked quietly to Robinson, who nodded in agreement.
Gulag was undeterred by the prisoner's hostility.
"These subjects have been administered much higher doses," he described, his voice filled with a sense of pride.
"We needed to test the limits of Ferox 13's side effects incrementally."
Gulag then paused beside one of the cells housing an emaciated prisoner, slamming his fist against the plexiglass, causing the prisoner to tremble and cower, whimpering in the corner of his cell.
Gulag laughed cruelly. "You see, Your Majesty? Ferox 13 weakens both body and mind."
He pounded his fist again, savoring the pleasure in the jerky prisoner's flinch. They passed more snarling prisoners, each a test sample of Gulag's higher doses. The last perspex cell had two wooden chairs facing the laboratory beyond. The king and Robinson took their seats as Gulag stood at the side. Gulag clapped his hands.
"And now the pièce de résistance! It is time for the demonstration of Ferox 13 in action."
Watching eagerly from their chairs, the King and Robinson noticed Asp and Dante rolling a rusty, squeaking hospital bed towards them on the uneven stone floor, eliciting moans and cries from the trapped onlookers, as if some traumatic memory had been reawakened inside them.
“No more, no more, not again,” the man pleaded.
Gulag unlocked the catchment, sliding open the retracted perspex on well-oiled tracks, admitting Asp and Dante into the barren antiseptic laboratory. The prisoner's eyes bulged in trepidation while they jostled him past the white walls. He knew what this meant. He had to get out of there, but there was no way out. He was trapped.
"Start the demonstration, please," Gulag ordered.
Asp didn't need much persuasion; he took a bulky syringe from the surgeon's instrument table and injected the chemical mixture into the man's neck. The digital clock on the wall counted down the seconds in muted beeps, not dissimilar to the sound of what a heart monitor would sound like.
"Ferox 13 has turned out even better than we could have ever imagined. The agent's effects are almost instantaneous. Watch!" Gulag pointed out.
The man gasped and convulsed violently, tugging at his leathered restraints like a scene from 'The Exorcist' for a brief moment. Then he fell limply back against the bed.
"What's our initial reaction time, Dante?"
"4.3 seconds going by the stopwatch!"
"A new world record!" said a pleased Gulag.
"Your Majesty."
"What Robinson?"
"You might have to brace yourself. You know what your queasy stomach is like!"
"I have taken my medication. It's fine."
Gulag nodded for them to continue. Asp and Dante gingerly unstrapped the prisoner from his restraints, stepping back at once with guns trained on the limp form. For a moment, the man seemed to sleep deeply, his face slack. Then his body jerked into sudden motion, launching himself from the bed in an animalistic spasm, falling on all fours on the epoxy flooring.
He began sweating and twitching uncontrollably, his limbs flailing madly. Slamming his body into walls with piston-like strength. A stream of obscenities burst from his mouth. His eyes rolled wildly in their sockets, chillingly vacant, as though he had been inhabited by a frenzied demon.
Gulag, observing the man's transmogrification, couldn't hide his excitement.
The king watched the prisoner's grotesqueness with a sense of both fascination and disgust.
Driven to madness, the prisoner took it upon himself to scratch the walls and then himself. Each scratch left behind traces of blood and shredded skin. An epitaph to his tortured isolation. Then it was the self-mutilating biting phase. Robinson and the king covered their eyes at the man's wild behavior with twisted stomachs.
After several minutes, the king raised his hand.
"Enough, Gulag; I have seen enough."
"Very well, Your Majesty, I think I have made my point. Asp, Dante, wind it down."
Though aggressive, the screaming, thrashing man was completely uncoordinated. Making it easy for Asp and Dante to subdue him. Asp injected him in the jugular vein of the neck with a different-colored syringe. Gradually, the man's erratic behavior began to subside, his movements becoming slower and more controlled as the sedative coursed through his veins.
"That injection was the antidote to Ferox 13, Your Highness. You have seen firsthand the switch around time," Gulag explained.
"Picture it: the world will have gone mad, and you, and Great Britain, shall hold the only cure!"
The king arose from his chair and scratched his beard thoughtfully, pacing a few steps back and forth. Asp and Dante strapped the now-docile prisoner onto the hospital bed and wheeled his body away from the cell.
"You have created a dangerous weapon here, Gulag. One that I am not sure that I want to be associated with"
"Imagine the wealth and influence we could wield, Your Highness," Gulag said.
"By controlling Ferox 13 and its antidote, we would have a lucrative monopoly on a medication desperately needed by the entire world. Nations would pay any price for our patented cure."
His words hinted at greedy profits and geopolitical dominance rather than any altruistic desire to relieve human suffering.
"The power to end millions of lives also gives those who oppose us the means to respond in kind. Are we to start World War 3?"
Gulag leaned against the wall.
"The world already has weapons of mass destruction. Nuclear weapons capable of wiping entire countries off the map in an instant."
The king listened attentively. Robinson raised his eyes. He had already heard Gulag rehearsing his pitch.
Gulag continued. "The key players maintain a balance of terror through mutually assured destruction. But no weapon yet conceived can equal the precision and control of my Ferox 13."
"That's all well and good, Gulag. I can see some strategic benefits."
"Strategic benefits Your Highness. That is just the tip of the iceberg. Countries like Russia and China. The middle-east. And all of the Arab nations will become our appreciative allies, bowing and scraping as they seek our cure."
Gulag’s voice took on a silky tone.
"Overnight, barriers of war will turn into barriers of peace between us. Oil-rich Gulf states—their wells will flow into Britain's coffers, as we alone can save them from their unfortunate demise. I could even win the Nobel Peace Prize for ending the conflict of the world."
Robinson, let out a dry chuckle.
"Somehow I suspect the Nobel Committee would beg to differ."
Even the king let out an amused huff of laughter at Gulag's outlandish proposition.
"A 'Peace Prize' for the man who unleashed a deadly virus upon the world? I think the more fitting award would be to see you hung, drawn, and quartered."
He shook his head in amusement.
"While your virus may grant us wealth and power initially, it will not go unnoticed. I can assure you of that."
Gulag frowned. "What do you mean?"
A sigh escaped from the king's lips.
"All of this—the compound, my fleet of submarines. The roll-out of Ferox 13. Other nations have spies and intelligence agencies too."
"Of course, they spy on us, Your Majesty. But I have taken extensive precautions. I can assure you of that."
The king studied Gulag closely.
"What precautions?"
"Precautions that ensure any proof they manage to acquire will only feed the false narrative we wish to create," Gulag replied smoothly.
"Misdirection, smoke, and mirrors. To lead their eyes astray."
"How do you propose we accomplish that?"
A cunning smile curled Gulag's lips.
"We make another country the prime suspect through a false-flag operation."
Gulag began pacing as he outlined his plan.
"I have developed different variants that target specific ethnic groups. We choose a scapegoat—China, for example. It would be a strain that appears to have originated from East Asians."
The King and Robinson listened closely.
"Such a cover-up is not implausible. After all, COVID-19 was suspected to be of Chinese origin," Robinson commented.
"COVID-19? Please, that was amateur hour. They've got nothing on my virus. My work is professional by comparison."
Gulag's eyes gleamed wolfishly.
"British intelligence will plant fabricated evidence suggesting China is developing a bioweapon. Over time, a convincing yet entirely fictional narrative will take shape. And when Ferox 13 is unleashed, we implicate China further by tracing the virus back to one of their labs."
The king saw firsthand how Gulag's manipulative mind worked.
"You aim to deflect all blame towards China."
"Precisely." Gulag smiled darkly.
"In the mayhem that follows, no one will question Britain's immunity."
The king considered this deviously clever plan.
"Deception on this scale requires a calculated ruthlessness. Are you capable of manipulating the whole world, Gulag? To send it in pursuit of an innocent scapegoat while we wear a mask of impeccable righteousness?"
Robinson spoke up. "The Chinese are no angels, Your Highness."
"Exactly. Nobody is completely innocent in this game. We have to do what we have to do to come out on top," Gulag replied.
"And to answer your question, Your Highness. You cannot even fathom the depths of my cunning. Give me the go-ahead, and we can go down in history as the architects of a new world order."
A tension-filled hush settled over the two men—one Machiavellian, the other skeptical. They locked eyes.
"Against my better judgment, I am going to approve your operation, Gulag."
Gulag's eyes lit up. "You will not regret this, Your Majesty!"
The king straightened to his full height.
"Robinson! Your are coming with me. I'm leaving this wretched place."
They swept past the perspex cells, the prisoner's screams and pleas for mercy rang in the king's and Robinson's ears. They tried to ignore the haunted eyes that followed. The king paused at the last cell.
"Gulag, I'm granting you the autonomy in the hope that you will use it wisely. Do not betray my trust."
His tone was firm, carrying the weight of a warning. The king's eyes rested on Gulag for a moment before turning on his heels, leaving Gulag alone with the wailing of the condemned.
Once they were outside, Robinson and the King crossed the helipad to the waiting Agusta Westland light twin-engine helicopter. They climbed into the aircraft and strapped themselves in. Before giving the pilot the thumbs up for take-off, the King called out to Robinson over the sweeping winds.
"Gulag's could prove our undoing if he's left unchecked."
"I understand, Your Highness. I shall rein him in if he gets too big for his boots."
"Good," the king replied.
He signaled to the pilot with a lifting motion of the arms, mimicking the rotors of a helicopter taking off. The pilot saluted and started the engines. The dissonance vibrated through the helicopter cabin as the blades rotated to life. It soared into the late afternoon air over the North Sea, banking once-safe altitude was attained. The submarine facility faded into the distance. The king's mind scrambled with Gulag's disturbing proposals.
"Your Majesty, where shall I set our course?" The pilot called out.
The king paused and said.
"Take me straight to Buckingham Palace. I have another one of my pointless ceremonies to attend."