Royal Chief of Staff Robinson oversaw many of the covert schemes for the Royal family, including a fleet of submarines docked within the cliffs of a rocky islet. Under Robinson’s supervision, the submarine fleet served various purposes, including espionage, smuggling, and, if deemed necessary, the use of force to advance the Royal family’s interests. Robinson waited impatiently on the bitter, unforgiving rocks of the North Sea. In the sky, clouds began to churn. The rhythmic chop of helicopter blades intensified as the aircraft descended unevenly through the mist. It tilted and pitched, riding on the relentless coastal gusts. Finally, landing on the helipad, pebbles spun out from under its skids. After the rotors slowed, the side door slid open, and Magister Gulag disembarked. He was impeccably dressed, with a receding hairline, carrying a Gucci laptop bag over his shoulder, marching toward Robinson.

  “Why have you summoned me to this miserable place?”

  “I see you have been rising through the ranks, Magister.”

  “It appears we have both risen to positions of increased authority. Though I find it amusing that you still address me as you did when I was a boy at Eaton College.”

  “Maybe Majister, but to the King, you are nothing more than a tool to carry out his plans. You wanted a seat at the table with the higher-ups. Now you must prove your worth.”

  Gulag contemplated Robinson’s words. “Perhaps there is something in it for me. Show me the terms of your offer; I’ll determine if our interests can align.”

  Robinson’s eyes flicked over Gulag like he was a cockroach crawling onto his patch. “Follow me then!”

  Both of them hiked along a narrow, unevenly hewn path carved into the cliff-side. The rocks were slippery underfoot, coated in bird shit from seagulls overhead. After about a hundred yards, the pathway narrowed further, sloping steeply, twisting out of sight in the shadow of the dominating cliffs. A metal door poked out from the weathered rock face. The rusty steel bolts were heavily corroded from years of coastal elements battering against them, leaving rust-red stains trailing down in morbid streaks. When Robinson pressed his hand against a discrete biometric scanner, he saw a flash of green light, followed by a crank of metal bolts unbridging inside the security entrance. Gulag followed him into a passageway, treading on metal gratings. Dim utility lights lined the corrugated steel walls, revealing handrails wide enough for two people.

  “We’ll have to go through the standard security screenings once we get through.”

  “Come on Robinson. Is that really necessary? You know who I am?”

  “All the more reason to check you, then, isn’t it?”

  Gulag glanced sidelong at Robinson, one eyebrow lifting slightly. Grime and grease covered his hands from the handrails. “I presumed my work was going to be managed in more luxurious surroundings!”

  “You’ll also need to surrender any electronic devices before passing through a full-body scanner.”

  “Whatever. Understood!”

  After a quarter-mile trek, they reached the security checkpoint, where a conveyor belt clanked noisily under harsh neon lights. Industrial cables snaked overhead. Scientists in white lab coats and engineers in stained blue overalls deposited their items. They then entered the full-body Siemens scanners. Armed guards eyed the workers from glass-windowed booths. Gulag fished out his belongings, placing the Gucci bag on the conveyor. Once he was cleared. The scanner began to rotate around his torso. The circular aperture mapped his contours in 3D relief, revealing every detail.

  “I would have expected the king’s Chief of Staff to extend a more gracious welcome.”

  “Standard security applies to all visitors—especially those without rank, like you, Gulag.”

  Gulag’s angular features twisted when one of the guards started patting him down, heightening his sense of irritability. “Spare me the formalities. We both know why I’m here. Your boss sees me as an asset, so let’s skip the bureaucratic red tape bullshit, shall we?”

  "Don’t mistake me, Gulag. The king gave me full authority here, and I won’t tolerate insubordination—not even from you!"

  Gulag’s thin lips pressed into a scornful smirk at Robinson’s blunt words, proceeding through the security checkpoint. After navigating through a corridor, they emerged into the submarine docks. The clanging of machinery, along with the shouts of workers, bounced off the concrete walls. Gulag ran his hand along another dusty metal railing, cringing at the oily residue coating its surface. Lit-up black subs docked at concrete piers stretching deep into the cavern. The pungent stench of diesel fuel mixed with stale seawater, filled Gulag’s lungs, nearly making him gag. Engineers worked feverishly over the vessels, checking systems on the state-of-the-art communication arrays, magnetic drives, and missile arrays. Cranes lifted fuel pods and torpedoes into holding hatches. Officers conferred over nautical charts.

  “These submarines are top of the range. The king spares no expenses when it comes to his overseas operations,” Robinson explained.

  “They are far superior to anything that the Royal Navy can muster up! “

  “Impressive. I can see why you keep this place so secret.”

  Robinson pointed to the staff. “These are the best scientific and engineering minds in the kingdom at work right here. Researchers spent decades creating this facility and the magnificent submarines you see here.”

  “Where do you source the personnel to operate all this, then?”

  “They come from various backgrounds. Many of the engineers previously served in the armed forces. Also, we have specialists recruited from abroad.”

  “Recruits from abroad?” Gulag pressed. “You mean defectors from other countries?”

  “We require experts with a variety of unique skill sets. How we acquire that expertise is irrelevant.”

  Gulag contemplated Robinson’s evasive response. This facility was more than a tool—it was a key to open many doors. If he could eliminate Robinson, nothing would stand between him and his ambitions. “Of course, the ends justify the means. I merely sought clarification. Forgive my bluntness, Robinson. Your achievements here are truly remarkable.”

  Acknowledging Gulag’s oily words with a brief gesture, Robinson guided him down a metal stairway. To the berthing hold of a 60-foot Marks-Class submarine; the stairs vibrated from the nuclear reactor’s hum under Gulag’s feet. Pride filled Robinson’s voice at the cutting-edge vessel.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “This is the ‘Black Mumba’, one of our fastest classes. She’s ready at a moment’s notice.”

  Robinson forced open a thick bulkhead, releasing a gust of cool, machine-scented air, laddering them both inside. Beyond was a maze of machinery. Engineers tinkered, carrying out checks with readout sheets. Gulag examined the complex control panels and monitoring equipment with a keen eye.

  “This is the work of capable hands, for sure.”

  “It breaks my heart to say this, but all the capabilities of this facility are now at your disposal to advance your research. His Royal Highness sees something in you that I don’t.”

  “Such resources at my disposal could advance my research in ways I could have never dreamed possible!”

  “We can convert these submarines, outfitting them with anything you require. All you must do is tell us what equipment you need, and we will provide it.”

  Gulag recklessly leaned onto a red button on one of the instrument control panels. An engineer noticed immediately.

  “I wouldn’t press that one if I was you. That activates the torpedo launch system!”

  Robinson’s eyes widened in alarm. “I knew this was a bad idea. I tried to tell him. You are way out of your depth with such machines of war!”

  Gulag withdrew his hand snidely. “Ah, where was I? With royal funding, the kingdom—and my work would reap untold benefits.”

  “These resources do not belong solely to you,” Robinson said.

  “They exist to further the king’s agenda, of which your research is but one part. We pursue progress for the good of the kingdom, not for you’re individual ambitions.”

  Disregarding Robinson now, Gulag observed the busy engineers onboard regarding them as his new servants, suddenly aware of his rising status. Robinson had his hands clasped behind his back, waiting impassively for Gulag’s response.

  “Perhaps our interests do indeed align after all. Show me what else you have to offer. I believe we may prove useful to one another.”

  “We’ll see,” Robinson replied cautiously. “There is more I can show you.”

  Once they were out of the ‘The Black Mamba’. Robinson escorted Gulag through a series of switchback stairs, away from the docking bay, higher into the compound. Where they arrived at a long dorm room that was basic at best. It was full of men; some slept, and a couple played cards.

  “This residential wing houses around fifty or so scientists and engineers,” Robinson explained.

  “We have a few women here kept separately for obvious reasons!”

  Gulag glanced around disdainfully at the surroundings. “These workers live like prisoners!”

  Robinson shrugged, then checked his watch. “It allows us to conduct our work with few disturbances. Come, I will show you to your lodgings.”

  Ascending upon another flight of stairs, they arrived at the quarters designated for higher-ranking officials. “And this will be yours during your time here.”

  Gulag sneered. “This accommodation will hardly do. I require a suite befitting my status, with proper comforts?”

  “I’m afraid this is the best we can offer.”

  “Nonsense. I demand a suite with all modern conveniences: a warm study, a sitting room, and an en suite bath. Do not forget who will make the breakthroughs that advance your king’s plans.”

  “Ah, I see. Let me fetch the brochure for the penthouse suite then, shall I? Will the platinum interior design set suit his lordship better?”

  “Now you’re talking, Robinson. I knew we’d come to an understanding.”

  “I will not arrange any special suite that is unreasonable. Extravagant quarters would breed resentment among the staff.”

  “Yes, yes, discretion and all that. Just be a dear and arrange it, would you? I have important work that requires a peaceful atmosphere.”

  “I’ll do what I can. Your lodgings will be secluded for privacy. Outwardly, you must blend in with the staff, but otherwise, you’ll have access to the same facilities.”

  Gulag studied the workers from the observation platform outside his new abode. “Are they competent and discreet?”

  “I told you earlier. They are the best in their fields!”

  “But are they killers? If things go wrong, I need men I can trust.”

  “These are scientists and engineers, not killers.”

  “But that is precisely why I was brought here. To administer and strategize the gray areas, the dirtier sides of the job. You have the engineers and the scientists. I bring a particular set of skills that the king finds useful. I want full control of the Bloodies. Those assassins will answer to me. I will orchestrate all their missions from now on!”

  “Not on your nelly, that’s my job. I’ve earned the right to hold the leader’s position. The king has been pleased with their work and mine. He gave you South Africa, just to give you a few crumbs to play with. It was a rod off my back anyway–it’s a flat-out no!”

  “Either you give me the Bloodies or we have no deal,” Gulag demanded. “Your personnel are inadequate for such an undertaking of this complexity and finesse.”

  “Ok, I will make you a deal. I will loan you them. Just to watch you fuck it up. Then you can be gone once and for all! The king values your intellect, Gulag. But do not mistake that for trust. Should your ambitions threaten the stability of the Royal crime cartel, I can promise you, that the king will put an end to you in two seconds flat. He tires very quickly of his new playthings.”

  “A fair warning, Robinson. Now, show me again how these vessels work. And send word to the Bloodies. I will head the annual meeting at Buckingham Palace.”

  After enduring a few more rounds of frustrating negotiations with Gulag, Robinson then gave a succinct tour of the key features of the submarines and the facilities, heading back to the rocky coastline once they had finished.

  “Is there anything else you require?”

  Gulag paused in mock thought with a small smile. “A jacuzzi in my quarters would be nice. And I need a 3D special effects artist.”

  “A jacuzzi? A 3D special effects artist, Gulag? This is not a movie set!”

  “All work and no play. When was the last time you got laid?”

  “I’d give up while you’re ahead, Gulag!”

  The helicopter pilot had been waiting patiently when Robinson brought his new problem child back to the helipad, ready to return him to the mainland. Gulag extended his hand, which Robinson shook limply.

  “You have shown me some very impressive toys today, Robinson. With careful management, our partnership could work out to our mutual advantage.”

  “For the good of the kingdom,” Robinson replied evenly, though he eyed Gulag with caution.

  Gulag smiled. “Of course.”

  He turned towards the helicopter, not looking back, climbing aboard. As the chopper began to rise, Robinson watched Gulag, giving him an insubordinate wink. The helicopter soon disappeared into the clouds, leaving Robinson alone on the rocks. He stared at the choppy waters, their surface restless and unpredictable—much like the man he’d just shown around. Gulag’s influence was a storm waiting to break, and Robinson feared the damage it would bring. There was much to prepare before Gulag’s return. With a resigned sigh, Robinson headed back inside the compound.