His Majesty jumped out of the helicopter dressed in a navy blue pilot’s suit as the briny coastal winds whipped around his thinning gray hair. He set off across the helipad. Robinson, ever his shadow, peppered him with updates, struggling to keep up with the king’s brisk stride. Once they passed security into the main facility, the king spoke in a frustrated tone.

  “I have received the latest operational reports across my desk this morning. My fleet has been having trouble with those Somali pirates again!”

  “What’s got them riled up this time, Your Highness?”

  “They are bloody demanding more danger money—the bloody cheek!”

  “Danger money, Your Highness? With the split they already get?”

  “A seventy-thirty split. 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 more than generous, Your Highness. The staff is ready for your inspection.”

  “Let’s get it over and done 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, adhering to his typical protocol.

  “Where’s Gulag?” the king asked, slightly annoyed.

  “I informed him of your arrival, Your Highness, but he’s petulant at the best of times.”

  The steady drone of Robinson’s voice cut off as vibrating metal rang through the docks. 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.”

  “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.”

  “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 mentioned you’ve made some significant advances since we last met.”

  “I think you’ll be quite pleased with what we have to show you.”

  “Very well then. Lead the way and show me these significant advances you mention.”

  Gulag instructed Asp and Dante. “Inspect the subject. Make sure we are ready for testing. Pronto!”

  “Yes, Magister,” answered Asp, before scurrying off.

  With the king and Robinson trailing behind, Gulag marched through the busy main area.

  The submarines sat in perfect alignment, their hulls freshly coated in anti-fouling paint. Each was primed to deploy at a moment’s notice. Engineers scattered, clearing the way for the king’s inspection. The trio walked along a docking bay to a matte black submarine bobbing in its berth, it's dark hull barely visible against the murky water. A gangplank led to a heavy scuttle hatch, hissing open. An engineer popped out; highlighted by the crimson interior lights.

  “You’ll all have to hold on tight to the ladder; it’s a bit wobbly.”

  He held out his hands, helping everyone down. The king scoffed.

  “This is not my first time, young man. I did a stint in the Navy when I was younger.”

  “You never served on the front line, did you?”

  “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,” said the engineer.

  Although the submarine was not the largest in the fleet, the central passageway branched off at various intersections, leading to smaller corridors. As the king ventured deeper, he picked up the musty odor emanating from wooden crates in what appeared to be a cargo hold. Strange metallic cylinders coated the king's brown leather pilot's gloves when he inspected one of the crates. The label indicated Germany as its target point, with a serial number embossed into the outer packaging.

  Robinson explained, "We’ve had our engineers working around the clock to convert this vessel on Gulag’s orders, Your Highness."

  Gulag pointed to one of the serial numbers. “These codes represent the coordinates for one of Germany’s major water treatment plants. When it's 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?”

  “As far as I can tell!”

  “Let me get this straight. You intend to launch the virus against Germany from my submarine—for preliminary testing purposes?”

  Before Gulag could answer, Robinson spoke hesitantly. “Your Highness, Gulag’s intentions go far beyond Germany... The entire submarine fleet has been converted to carry Gulag’s deadly cargo to every major city on the planet. I was afraid to reveal the full extent of Gulag’s mad plans.”

  “Your caution betrays a smallness of vision that bores me, Robinson!”

  “The scope and ingenuity of your plans are quite astounding, Gulag. 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. You sponsored this whole project! So do not squawk at me now about having feathers stuffed in your mouth from a meal you demanded. I have worked my bollocks off!”

  “Your plans sound too ambitious. I cannot green-light anything without seeing any evidence. Show me proof that these claims are not just hyperbole on your part?”

  “Funny you should say that, Your Majesty. I happen to have a little demonstration prepared for you.”

  “Not another demonstration like the last time, I hope?”

  “Nothing that needs to cause further royal fussing. Just a simple test to prove the effectiveness of Ferox 13.”

  “Let’s see this demonstration of yours then.”

  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, delving into the subterranean recesses of the rocky Islet. Their silhouettes grew on the damp stone walls. Distant screams echoed alongside the crashing waves from above. They came to another door, its hinges rusted, its frame fused into the stone wall. Robinson inserted a chunky key into the slot.

  “These tunnels were used as makeshift POW holding cells during both World Wars, housing prisoners for the entire duration of each conflict.”

  “Indeed, the history of these tunnels is no doubt fascinating, Robinson.”

  Gulag laughed grimly. “Yes, these tunnels likely saw their fair share of human misery. But they serve a new purpose today.”

  With a twist, Robinson pushed open the door, entering them into a long sterile hallway banded 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 it 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. I used them to iron out a few kinks with the formula.”

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  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?”

  “Be quiet, Robinson. Your comments are not welcome,” said the king.

  Further down the corridor, the atmosphere grew increasingly hostile. The men inside demonstrated 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 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. I needed to test the limits of Ferox 13’s side effects incrementally.”

  Gulag 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. Gulag laughed cruelly.

  “You see, Your Majesty? Ferox 13 weakens both the body and the 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 full action.”

  Watching eagerly; 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.

  Unlocking the catchment, Gulag retracted the perspex along its tracks, allowing Asp and Dante to enter the sterile, white laboratory. The prisoner’s eyes bulged with fear; he knew what this meant—he was trapped.

  “Start the demonstration, please.”

  Asp needed little persuasion. He grabbed 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 with muted beeps, similar to the sound of a heart monitor.

  “Ferox 13 has turned out even better than we could have ever imagined. The agent’s effects are almost instantaneous. Watch!”

  The man gasped; convulsing violently, tugging at the leathered restraints like a scene from ‘The Exorcist’. Then he fell limply back against the bed.

  “What’s our initial reaction time, Dante?”

  “4.3 seconds, going by the clock.”

  “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 unstrapped the prisoner from his restraints, stepping back at once with guns trained on the limp form. For a brief 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 vacant eyes rolled wildly in their sockets, as though he had been inhabited by a frenzied demon. Gulag, observing the man’s transmogrification, couldn’t hide his excitement. Driven to madness, the prisoner took it upon himself to scratch the walls and 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 his neck with a different-colored syringe this time. 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. Picture it? the world will have gone mad, and you, and Great Britain, shall hold the only cure!”

  The king arose from his chair, scratching his beard thoughtfully, pacing a few steps back and forth. Asp and Dante strapped the docile prisoner onto the hospital bed, wheeling him 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. With Ferox 13 and its antidote in our hands, the world would be at our mercy. We would have a lucrative monopoly. Nations would pay any price for our patented cure.”

  “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, 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.

  “Think Your Majesty, 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. This 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 at your feet as they seek our cure.”

  Gulag’s voice took on a silky tone. “Overnight, the walls of war will crumble, replaced by the foundations of peace. Oil-rich Gulf states; their wells will flow into your royal hands, as we alone can save them from their unfortunate demise. I could even win the Nobel Peace Prize!”

  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. While your virus may grant us wealth and power initially, it will not go unnoticed. I can assure you of that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “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. But I have taken extensive precautions.”

  “Precautions—like what?”

  “Precautions that ensure any proof they manage to acquire will only feed the false narrative we wish to create. Misdirection: smoke: mirrors.”

  “How do you propose we accomplish that, Gulag?”

  “We make another country the prime suspect through a false-flag operation. 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 the East Asians.”

  “Such a cover-up is not implausible,” commented Robinson. “After all, COVID-19 was suspected to be of Chinese origin.”

  “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. “You can have a word in British intelligence’s ear. Get them to fabricate some evidence suggesting China is developing a bioweapon. Over time, a convincing yet entirely fictional plot will take shape. And when Ferox 13 is unleashed, we implicate China further by tracing the virus back to one of their labs.”

  “So you suggest we deflect all blame to China?”

  Robinson spoke up. “The Chinese are no angels, Your Highness.”

  “Precisely, Your Majesty! In the following mayhem, no one will question Britain’s immunity.”

  “You’re a smooth operator, Gulag, but I’m not convinced you have it in you. Deception on this scale requires a level of ruthlessness you’ve never shown before.”

  “You cannot even fathom the depths of my cunning. Nobody is innocent in this game. We will just do it better. If you want to come out on top. 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 as they locked eyes—one Machiavellian, the other skeptical.

  “Ahh! 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! You’re 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 following them. The king paused at the last cell. “Gulag, I’m granting you autonomy in the hope that you will use it wisely. Do not betray my trust!”

  He left, 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 twin-engined helicopter. Before giving the pilot the thumbs up for take-off, the King called out to Robinson.

  “Gulag 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.”

  “See to it if he does!”

  He signaled to the pilot with a lifting motion of his arms, mimicking the rotors of a helicopter taking off. The pilot saluted and started the engines. The dissonance vibrated through the cabin as the blades rotated to life. It soared into the late afternoon air over the North Sea, banking once a safe altitude was attained. The submarine facility faded into the distance. The king’s mind scrambled with Gulag’s disturbing gambling proposal.

  “Your Majesty, where shall I set our course?” asked the pilot.

  “Take me straight to Buckingham Palace. I have another one of my pointless ceremonies to attend to.”